


Nothing Compares 2 U

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: 90's AU, Absent mother, Alcohol, Anxiety, Asexuality Spectrum, Coming of Age, Demisexuality, Depression, Divorce, F/F, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Marijuana, Multiple Asexual Characters, References to Drugs, ResBang 2016, Weddings, this is a damn soap opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: In 1998, high school senior Maka Albarn struggles through a year of growth, change, and heartache. Between her upcoming graduation, her parent's crumbling marriage and a frustrating, overwhelming crush on her neighbor it's, like, totally brutal. Maybe life would just be easier cuddled up in bed, watching Sailor Moon. 90's AU.





	1. spiderwebs

**2008**

.

It's her own fault he catches her off guard.

She had merely been helping Tsubaki with last minute preparations, shuttling in arm-fulls of flowers - something that had very been specifically _Blake's_ job, not hers - when she quite literally ran into him, stems and petals flying everywhere. At first she's just as apologetic as she is clueless, frantically dropping to her knees to collect the fallen decorations, muttering, "Sorry, sorry," and, "I should have been watching where I was going," like a complete space cadet. It doesn't even cross her mind that she's bowed before someone who could very well be a perfect stranger, knees spread boyishly in a skirt, while hurriedly collecting fallen stems and carefully tucking petals back into proper order.

If only he _were_ a stranger.

Maka doesn't notice the outstretched hand until moments later, when the ground is clear and her hands are full. Blunt fingernails greet her, alongside long, freckled fingers and a smooth palm. She doesn't need the vocal confirmation to know exactly who she's bumped into, but his tell-tale, nervous clear of his throat rumbles through her like thunder anyway.

Ten years and his hands are still stupidly pretty. Ten years and his _eyes_ still have the power to pin her down and make her feel blown open, make her feel vulnerable and _seventeen_ all over again. It's just as much of a rush as it is terrifying, and she feels wholly naked in front of him, wishing she'd done her hair, wishing she was wearing more than just a coat of mascara, wishing she was standing so she could punch him right in his stupid, nicely-shaped jaw.

It's been ten goddamn years since she's seen Soul Evans and it's _still too soon._

The white-hot anger is instantaneous. Burning up, she sputters, unable to keep her composure for even just a moment in his presence.

Maka frees a hand just to slap his away. He flinches and tucks it back into his pocket, eyes flickering away - and without his gaze immobilizing her, Maka jumps to her feet and holds her ground. He's even taller now, somehow, than he had been as a teenager, but she won't let his adult, broad shoulders distract her from the truth. There's still a fracture in her heart left behind by him, and fuck it all if he thinks he can just waltz back, offer her a hand like a gentleman and pretend like nothing has changed.

_Everything's_ changed. He should know that. _He's_ the one who changed them.

"I can get up myself, thank you," she says primly, chin raised high. The burning heat is too close to her eyes, and Maka cannot cry in front of him. Not now that she is fully grown. Not now that he's here, a week before Tsubaki's wedding, disrupting her (new) natural order of things.

Soul's posture caves. "Sorry," he says, and Maka very nearly spits in his face.

He has a lot of nerve existing in the same airspace as her after everything - and why _here,_ she finds herself wondering, legs very nearly trembling in barely-contained rage. Why here and why _now,_ of all times, has Soul Evans decided to come out of hiding and show his face? On the cusp of her best friend's wedding, when her hair is crudely tied in a bun and her legs unshaven?

Because of course she's envisioned this moment. Of course she's spent too many hours in bed, dreaming of the day she;d run into him again. She'd be bolder. More beautiful. Successful, not clutching mangled flowers and rocking very unsexy running shoes.

"Do you think a sorry will cut it?" Her voice is shrill and high. For a moment, Maka doesn't recognize it as her own. Who is this person, losing her cool over a man? Who is this girl, in her body, who cares so much?

His eyes are so damn red. And glued to his shoes. _Nice_ shoes. Not at all the beat-up combat boots he'd worn as a teen. He's also not at all wearing the same mangled, tight jeans he'd sported as a young man, either. Shame. Part of her misses them, much in the way one misses bits of their childhood - so heavily drenched in nostalgia that it's blinding to the truth. Had any of his clothes ever actually been passable, or had she merely been too distracted by such rose-shaded glasses?

Not like it matters now. If anything, it just pisses her off more. He's still so distracting, even after all of this time. Even now, his eyes are still the warmest thing she's ever seen. Even now, they still make her tongue a little numb, make her brain pause.

Fuck him. Maka clenches her fist and finds her nerve.

"Where do you get off?" she asks, _burning,_ rightfully so. "Do you know what it was like, Soul? Do you even _care?_ "

She's making a scene. People are staring. Perhaps it's cruel of her to bask in it, if just because she knows attention makes Soul so uncomfortable. The spotlight cooks him, builds up his walls and shuts him down, makes him fidgety - but while he squirms, he never runs, never budges, and Soul takes her verbal beatdown with an unwavering level of maturity.

Shaking. Her legs are _shaking,_ and the asshole is still just standing there. He's not even fighting back, just bowing his head every time she splutters and tries to collect her thoughts long enough to spit venom at him. As if she hasn't been preparing for this moment for years. As if she hasn't spent every moment to herself planning what she would say, should she ever run into Soul Evans again.

And now here she is, nearly incoherent with fury and betrayal and _heartache_. Fuck him.

"Sorry," he says again, more quietly this time. He dips his head. "Sorry, Maka."

Maka _harrumphs_ and bounces the flowers in her arms, shifting her weight. "What are you even doing here," she asks instead, pointedly ignoring the solemn look in his eyes. Crimson will make her forget her ire. Crimson will thaw her, and Maka can't have that, she just _can't_. She's behind schedule as it is, and this little run in with her past is dragging on and eating up precious time - but Soul demands her attention just as effortlessly as always.

"I thought you still lived in Death City," Maka huffs.

"Am I supposed to stay there forever?"

"Sure never had a problem with _that_ before."

He flinches, finally, and Maka can't even find pleasure in it. Stupid sad eyes. Stupid kicked puppy face. Stupid stupid Soul, appearing out of nowhere. She ought to knock his lights out. She ought to save Tsubaki's wedding and kick him out of Massachusetts, stat.

He is maddening. Looking at him brings the strangest tightness to her chest - a fine brew of righteous anger, of course, but also hints of nostalgia, notes of twitterpated yearning, impossibly. There is a fire within her that he lights effortlessly, an overwhelming heat that he ignites with nothing more than a red-eyed _glance_ and bleak set of his lips. More than anything else, she's angry that he can still inspire these fluttering feelings in her, even after everything he's done. Even amidst all of the hurt, all of the rage, there's still inexplicable attachment to him. She feels like a guitar string, and he's plucking away, idly, and everything is humming around her in atmospheric preamble.

Soul shrugs. "Liz invited me."

" _What?"_

"Said she wanted _all_ of her friends at her wedding," he says, almost guiltily, still fully unable to meet her eye. Rage diverted, Maka very nearly crushes the flowers in her grip. "So here I am. Hey."

"Puh," Maka snaps, "how _thoughtful_ of you. You're always so _considerate,_ Soul. Always there for your _friends._ "

"Maka," he tries. There's that tinge in her chest, creaking, rippling, and Maka swallows thickly.

She wants him to stop talking. She wants him to meet her eye and own up to everything, wants an answer, wants a _reason_ \- but he won't, and she won't let him, and it's far too late for reasoning, even if there's a vacancy in her heart he's left barren.

Maka has flowers to deliver, has a hall to decorate, has maid of honor duties to attend to - has far more important things to be doing than barely resisting the urge to throw down in a Boston hotel and kick Soul Evans right in the family jewels, no matter how desperately he deserves it. It's a great show of restraint when she holds her head high, sets shoulders back, and marches right past him. It's something out of novels, the way she brushes past him, shoulder bumping his arm, jaw set - and the way he turns to watch her go is just desserts. It's validating, almost, and certainly fuels the stubborn, headstrong part of her that longs for revenge.

The bustle of the street is loud. Car horns and chatter and the clicking of high heels muffle the sound of her blood roaring in her ears - and more importantly, help shroud the constant replay of Soul's voice, saying "Sorry," over and over again, on an everlasting loop. _Sorry, Maka._

_Sorry._

How long has she waited to hear that? How long had seventeen year old Maka sat waiting by the phone, in a new city, holed up in her dorm room with a pillow hugged to her chest and bleary eyes?

It's far too late for apologies and sad eyes. But it's not too late to cry, apparently, and once the spell is broken and he's fallen off the radar again, twenty-seven year old Maka can't stop the tears from coming. They burn hot, scarring the pale, delicate skin of her cheeks with streaks of heartache and regret. Perhaps she'll never be clean of him. Perhaps there will always be a part of her, no matter how pathetic and stupid, that will still miss him, will still _hurt_ over him.

It's been _ten years_ since she's seen him and it's still too soon.


	2. birdhouse in your soul

**1998**

.

She knows his passenger seat like the back of her hand.

It's her home away from home, in a way. There's a good chance Maka has spent more time in his car than in her own bedroom the past few months; there's a distinct lack of bickering parents and scent of booze wafting from Soul's dashboard, and there's something freeing about the open window blowing her hair from her face and the low rumbling of the motor.

Late night drives are her favorite. They're soothing, with Soul's quiet conversation and the flicker of passing streetlights. He never demands too much attention, never asks for much, just mumbles here and there about the next song on his mix, which way she wants to go home, _the moon's awfully bright tonight, huh._

Maka sinks deeper into the seat and kicks her feet up on the dashboard. Her boots clomp noisily together and she watches Soul purse his lips, eyes darting from the road just long enough to spot her messy laces. Well, she thinks, smothering a little smile, it's not her fault the shoes are several sizes too large for her. It's not her fault Soul has big feet and she just so happened to forget her shoes back home. He'd offered, after all, to lend her a pair.

"What time is it?" he asks quietly, ignoring the way the toes of her _(his)_ boots click together rhythmically.

The seat squeaks and squeals beneath her wigging. "11:30."

"Early enough," Soul says, turning down a dirt road. The path is much less smooth than the tar, but the bumps keep her awake and eyes open, so she says nothing of it.

Perhaps it's his plan; Maka's bedtime is usually 9:30 sharp, just after Sailor Moon reruns have finished and her face has been washed. But it's Saturday, so Maka relents and lets Soul have his fun, lets him whisk her away for adventure, if only because she really doesn't want to go home yet anyway. Saturday nights are always a production in the Albarn house, between Papa coming home late and Mama waiting up for him, expression pinched, as she asks Maka to head up to bed, please. Realistically, it's easier to just split for the night altogether.

Maka digs into her back and pulls out a pad of paper. Streetlights flash by as she clicks her pen.

"S'that?" Soul asks, eyes still on the road. "Better not be homework."

"As if," she huffs. "MASH. Wanna play?"

"Uuugh. Do I have a choice?"

"I'm going to put Blake under marriage for you, okay?"

"What- _no,_ come on, Maka," Soul says, so moodily, and Maka presses the notebook to her face to hide her devious grin. "Stop reading in the dark. It's bad for your eyesight, nerd-"

The clicking of her flashlight shuts him up pretty quickly. Maka slides her notebook back onto her lap and continues writing, giggling to herself as she adds _Blake_ to Soul's list of potential suitors. From beside her, he grunts, fingers flexing and clenching around the steering wheel. He might mutter, "dweeb," under his breath before turning up the speakers, and Maka drowns in _Pearl Jam_ as she scribbles her own name beneath Blake's, heart fluttering in her chest.

The passing street lamps cast such interesting shadows on him. He looks almost pretty in this light, mysterious, with his long lashes and nice cheekbones and dark eyes. Her eyes fall to his lips, as always, and she's quietly mystified for a long moment how any boy could be so distracting. Maka wishes she could write it off as one of those obstacles of having a stupidly handsome neighbor, but the heat in her face tells her otherwise.

So she has a crush on her best friend, _whatever_. It's _harmless,_ she thinks, if she keeps it to herself. And she will. And she has to, because Soul has other interests anyways - a tall, lipstick-wearing blonde comes to mind - and it's never really been Maka's place to intrude on Soul's romantic (or _sexual,_ god) life. He's so damn private about everything, romance included. She's just happy to have a part of his life at all, just to have even a little bit of him, that she can't find it in her to ask for more.

"Put someone good on there, if you're so set on doing it," Soul says, sighing.

Maka scribbles down _Liz._ "Done."

"Put Dana Scully on there too," he says, after a moment. "She's wifeable."

Interesting. But not surprising, really - he's a dime a dozen, and Blake may or may not have a shrine dedicated to the woman in his closet, so Maka shakes her head and pens her name. "Do you think I could rock a pantsuit?"

She watches him purse his lips. Soul clearly stifles a shit eating grin. "You'd look like your mother. Your dad might cry."

Point taken. The horror of her papa sobbing at her feet is more revolting than the honor of resembling her mama; in the end, it's just not worth it. "Never mind."

The motion of the vehicle stops, and Soul puts the car into park. If she were with anyone else, she might be a bit spooked - they've stopped in the middle of nowhere, shrouded by trees, at nearly midnight - but it's Soul, and he's probably the last person she expects to come at her with grabby hands and ill intentions. He turns the keys in the ignition and then suddenly it's _dark_ , so Maka sets her flashlight on the dashboard and maneuvers it to properly illuminate the space without blinding him.

Soul lets out a low moan and stretches. Without the music going, it's easy to hear his bones creak and pop into place. She looks up from her notepad and says, "Want me to work the kinks out of your shoulders?"

He sighs and drops his head back against the seat. "Nah. I'll just fall asleep and then we'll have no way home."

"I have a _license,_ you know."

"Not in my car you don't."

Stupid rich boy. Stupid nice car and comfy seats and expensive stereo. The only way Soul could be more protective over his car is if it were a motorcycle - but it's too "dangerous," according to his parents, so instead he's driving something just as flashy with twice as much metal to crash.

Pouting, Maka contemplates giving him a unicycle as a potential ride. He makes a grab for her notebook. "Lemme see the damage-"

"No way! As _if,_ " she huffs, hugging the pad to her chest and sticking her tongue out at him.

Soul reaches to grab her tongue and she scoots back, seatbelt nearly choking her in the process. It digs into her neck uncomfortably, and Maka slips her tongue back between her lips long enough to click herself unbuckled and nestle herself more comfortably against the chill of his window. From this angle, it's easy to block Soul from sneaking peeks at his fantasy future and grin at him at the same time, and he pouts at the reality of it.

"Maka," he says, very much whining.

She giggles and pens _motorcycle_ under vehicles. "No, you'll ruin the surprise."

" _Maka."_

"Build a bridge and get over it, jerkbutt."

His expression pinches. "Burn," he tones boorishly, looking ominous in the glare of her flashlight. It's such a dramatic shadow, brightening curve of his nose and height of his cheeks just to cast darkness over his eyes. Then again, she thinks with a smile, his hair is already doing a pretty good job of shielding his eyes in that mysterious way he so strives for.

The two of them must look like such an odd pair. Him, with his flannel and ripped jeans, combat boots and shaggy hair - and her, with her pleated skirt and jelly sandals and Sailor Moon-inspired pigtails - they don't match, not even a little bit, but years of friendship built through a creaky fence is impenetrable, apparently, and Maka wouldn't trade it for the world. They just work, despite their differences - who else would put up with a game of MASH at midnight, in a dark car parked in the middle of nowhere? Who else would grin through it anyway and busy himself with retying her shoes while she scribbles aimlessly?

Soul would. Soul will. Soul _does,_ even if he thinks her music is shit and teases her for naming her Tamagotchi ' _Utena_.'

Her name's circled in purple ink. Maka bites her lip and shuts the notebook. Maybe telling Soul he's destined to get MASH-married to her isn't the best choice of conversation, not while wifeable Dana Scully was clearly an option.

She sort of wants to keep it to herself anyway, like her own private fantasy future. Liking him is harmless if she keeps it to herself, like a string of pearls, swaddled in silk and tucked safely in her jewelry box. What is the harm in keeping something beautiful close to her heart? It can still be admired. It won't tarnish. There's less of a chance of something accidentally breaking, of gems dropping like marbles at her feet.

"What's the verdict?" he asks, quirking a brow. His fingers drum along her shins and send little shivers up her legs, like he's tapping a melody along the keys of his piano. "Should I invest in a new suit?"

She grabs for the flashlight and shines it ominously beneath her chin. There's no need for light; without a doubt, Maka knows he hasn't moved an inch. "Are you afraid of the dark?"

.

"He's doing it again."

"It's his _locker,_ Soul. He's allowed to stand there. You know, some people actually keep their books in there. Like… like _students._ "

He gives a great, dramatic sigh and drops his forehead against her pigtail. She sort of suspects the hard metal that cinches her elastic is digging in between his brows. "But he takes up so much _space._ "

Maka rolls her eyes. She would love to check over her shoulder and see, perhaps, if Free, the resident quarterback and champion dog-walker really _is_ blocking Soul's locker with his impressive shoulder-span, but there's a slouchy sharkboy pouting into her hair and range of motion is sort of limited at the moment. Instead, she works on squeezing another book into her locker without disrupting the natural order of things and sending everything tumbling down on her toes. It proves to be quite the difficult task, and Soul snorts in amusement as her tower wobbles.

"You could carry a backpack, you know. And not just build the second leaning tower of pisa in your locker."

"And screw up my back? Pass," she says huffily, pushing his face away. Soul straightens for a moment, looming over her as he plucks a pen from her stash and tucks it behind her ear. "Wh-"

"You'll need it," he says, shrugging. "You're always losing 'em. Should've gotten you a new pencil case for your birthday instead of that walkman."

"I _like_ the walkman," she insists.

Soul flicks her between her eyes lightly. "I bet you're still listening to the same Spice Girls CD Tsu gave you, too-"

" _I like it!"_ Maka gasps, then mock bites at the finger poking at her cheek. "Ugh, go away if you're just going to be a pest. I have places to be."

"Class is for squares."

" _You're_ a square."

"Sick burn," he says dryly. "Seriously, though, I need to get to my locker. Shit's in there. And he's-"

Maka shuts her locker, hugging her books to her chest and flashes him a wry grin. Nervous Soul needs a buddy to help walk him across the hall to his own locker. It's as cute as it is exhausting, and he's lucky she's here to do the talking for him and muscle her way through the crowd. And maybe Free's bulging muscles. "You could just ask, you know. He's a really nice guy. He always picks up Eruka from my place after our study sessions-"

"Yeah, but you're friends with everyone. Your face says approachable," he drawls, gesturing vaguely at her. Maka perks a brow and pops her hip to the side. "And this face? Right here? My face says bored indifference."

Soul definitely has a poppy seed stuck in his teeth from his breakfast bagel. Not exactly the picture of _bored indifference,_ but whatever, she'll let him have his fun. If he wants to maintain his aloof, devil-may-care reputation, fine, whatever, it doesn't affect her any - but it is sort of funny to watch. Because sure, Soul is a little callous, and sure, Soul's more than a little bit rough around the edges, but underneath all of that snarl and unkempt hair is a softie who naps on her lap when he's high and buys her ice cream and pads while she's bedridden. An abundance of flannel and kickass doc martins can only hide so much heart.

It's kind of disgusting how cute he is, even with a messy mouth and frayed corduroys. What's more disgusting is how effective his puppy dog pout is. Soul: 1, Maka: 0.

"Fiiiine," she sighs, turning on her heels. A swinging pigtail most definitely slaps Soul in the neck. "I'll get your locker back. But you owe me, got it?"

"Your wish is my command," he says, fingers sifting through said pigtail and goodness gracious, the way it feels feathering back along her bare neck inspires goosebumps.

Thinking of anything else is a wise course of action. Focusing on Free is ideal. She sets her sights on broad shoulders and rippling muscles and anything but dark eyes and crooked smiles. Such determined attention comes at a price, and Maka pays it upfront when she walks directly into another pair of toned biceps, shrouded nosily in a neon windbreaker. When all she sees is over-gelled, shrewdly dyed blue hair, Maka knows she's made a mistake. This is not the beefcake she seeks.

Her dear friend Soul doesn't even bother warning her. He does laugh, though. _Jerkbutt._

Blake's muscles _hurt._ Rock hard abs probably aren't even the half of it. Maka yelps and pushes his shoulder away before he has the chance to tuck her into a headlock. "Ow-!"

"Oi, watch where you're going, pigtails," he says, voice thundering through the halls. From the corner of eye, she watches Soul sink back into the crowd, tucking himself in the safe little divet of students by her locker, eyes still on her. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing, I was just-"

"Don't care!" Blake exclaims at once. Before she even has a chance to fight back, he's shoved crudely-folded construction paper into her hands and grins widely. "You are hereby cordially invited to the Halloween shindig at my pop's crib. Be there or be fuckin' lame, Albarn. Costume required."

Gaping like a fish, she flounders about and opens the alleged invitation. "You wrote in highlighter on construction paper?"

"It's exciting, right?"

Blake's handwriting is laughably atrocious. Maka spends a disproportionate amount of time trying to decipher the word "beeyotch".

"It's… _something,"_ she settles for, because it's certainly not a _lie,_ but it's not the whole truth, either. Something tells her admitting that the whole thing is a catastrophic, aesthetic mess won't sit well with Blake Barrett, he who runs a secret Pokemon card league and marathons WWE like it's his job. She's no delicate flower, but being the test subject of Blake's newest wrestling moves has never been a pleasant experience. Maka's pretty sure she still has enough bruises from the last time he'd demonstrated _The Grizzly Bear Death Grip_ and doesn't need any more, thanks.

"Hah. Right? Anyways, tell Pouty McGrungerson he's invited, too. Wouldn't be a party without his mopey ass. Tell 'em his god's supplying the booze and pizza."

"His god being you, of course," Maka says, rolling her eyes.

He flexes and then smooches his own bulging bicep. "Booyeah!"

The worst part of the encounter is the group of sighing girls behind her. The mere concept of anybody - _anybody_ \- finding that overwhelming cocktail of personality and narcissism attractive is both revolting and mindboggling. Maybe it has something to do with his alleged rippling abs. Perhaps it's the way his ass looks in his wrestling uniform. Maka suspects they've never actually had a conversation with him.

Or gotten within a three foot radius of him, else they might've smelled him and realized that Blake doesn't really grasp the concept of Man Stank being inherently _bad._ Not to mention disgusting.

By the time she finally parts ways with Blake and makes her way over to Soul's locker, Free the Beefcake is nowhere in sight. Good. Whatever, it makes her job easier; while Free is certainly _nice,_ it's a load off her back to cut that conversation out of her schedule.

She works on autopilot, easily working his combination and popping open the lock to his locker. There's a picture of a motorcycle pasted on the inside of the door, as well as a few loose sheets of music, scribbled down haphazardly in his chicken scratch. In fact, there's more music than actual books in his locker; between the CD cases and cassette tapes, there's not much room for anything else. Maka bites back a grin and spins to face him.

Except he's nowhere to be found. Brows knit, Maka stands on her toes, searching for his mop of white hair in the ocean of bustling students. Still nothing. Where could he have gone? Class is in five minutes, according to her wrist watch, and it'll take Soul at least three of those minutes to slouch his way down the hall, at his pace. It doesn't make sense. Had he sent her off to do his dirty work just to get rid of her? Was that encounter with Blake planned?

Maka Albarn is no man's lackey. Teeth grit, she slams his locker shut. The sound echoes through the hall, and Tsubaki jumps from where she stands, three lockers down.

_Stupid Soul._ Where could he have gone? She hadn't had her eyes off of him for that long, unless Blake really did eat up a bunch of his time running his mouth. Even then, Soul tends to move at a snail's pace; he couldn't have gotten far-

A trail of long, golden hair flutters down the hall, a shuffling, lurched back follows after, and suddenly Maka knows exactly where he's gone.

She might consider Soul her best friend, but sometimes she wonders if the feeling is mutual. Because yes, sure, Maka spends so much of her time worrying about him while he's home and potentially in the same room as his father, it's Liz that Soul leans on for de-stressing. And okay, fine, she knows why he does it - Liz isn't quite as prim and straight edge as herself, and these days Soul tends to lean on weed to sate his bubbling anxiety - but it doesn't hurt any less.

They'd grown up with each other, after all. Soul has been her neighbor for as long as she can remember. He's spent more summers in her bedroom - and in their old treehouse - than his own home. Maka spent many a pre-teen night on the phone with him, talking him out of doing something rash, like getting into a fight with his father, like blaming Wes for things that were out of his control-

It's a little discouraging, feeling left out. And silly, because she's never really had more claim over him than anyone else. She has history. Childhood. A conveniently close place for Soul to escape to. And Liz has booze and the loud, distracting music scene to pull him out of his head.

Dumb. Maka swallows back the bite of jealousy burning in her throat and hefts her own books closer to her chest. If Soul wants to skip class and go smoke with Liz, fine, whatever - she's in no place to stop him. She can give him hell for it later anyway. No sweat.

Tsubaki hums thoughtfully and bumps her shoulder. "Ready to go?"

Maka blinks back thoughts of sad red eyes and pretty hands and nods numbly. "Yeah," she mutters, voice cracking just enough to piss her off. Tsubaki's brow arches and then knits, concern written in every inch of those blue eyes. "Let's go. I don't want to get stuck sitting behind Ox's fat head again."

.

Predictably, Papa's car is nowhere to be found.

Maka doesn't even bother making a pitstop at her bedroom. What's the point, if she's only going to get upset on the way there? It's no mystery where her mother is - passive aggressively putting away the dishes, maybe stirring a pot of overcooked pasta while staring at the vacant spot in the driveway - and, though she loves her, Maka really doesn't think she has it in her to put up with her mama's bad mood for the third day in a row. Mama might be the best, but even Maka has her limits, and the treehouse is looking more and more like nirvana.

It's not like she needs the computer for her English homework, anyway. Her hardcover novel that keeps clapping along the small of her back and steadily bruising her like a banana will do her just fine.

What's less predictable is finding Soul already occupying their secret hideaway. He looks up at her, lazily lifting a few fingers in greeting before closing his eyes again, head leaned back against the wall, headphones nearly buried beneath his mess of hair. Whatever; it he's not in a talkative mood, then she won't push it. Truth be told, she's still not sure if she's going to scream or cry yet, and Papa's late arrival isn't even due for another few hours.

For a while, it's quiet. There's no noise but the hum and buzz of Soul's music, turned up to ungodly levels, surely hurrying along his hearing's expiration date. And while muffled Pearl Jam is a bit annoying, it's not distracting, and Maka gets her reading homework done in record time.

He looks up at her finally, eventually, eyes suspiciously red and drooping - moreso than usual, anyway. Soul licks his lips. Taps his foot along to the faint beat. Then rolls the wire of his headphones between his fingers and stares at her thoughtfully.

He's _so high._

Sober Soul never has the nerve to look her in the eyes this long. Not without muttering some half-baked excuse and maybe tugging on her pigtail for good measure, anyway. The weed chills him out, though, and dulls all of his jitters and trepidation to a muted hum, and it's a (not so secret) indulgence of his that Maka politely ignores. Only because it helps him, she tells herself - only because it makes things easier for him to deal with, only because it soothes that anxious tightness in his face.

For him, she's willing to overlook a lot of things.

"Fast," he says sluggishly, watching her tuck her book back into her bag. For a moment, she thinks he might say something more, but then he nibbles his bottom lip instead.

Maka crawls her way over and unplugs his headphones. He blinks at her, toe-tapping paused. "Easy homework," she replies, and watches his eyes drop to watch her mouth. "Not that you would know, considering you skipped. Again."

He hums and slides his headphones around his neck. "I'm too cool for class."

"A _big brain_ is sexy."

His _dark eyes_ are sexy, and Maka hates herself for admiring his pretty lashes, his weighted stare. "Never said anything 'bout being sexy, Albarn."

Remove foot from mouth. Recover, stat. "I mean," she starts, nervously tugging at her choker, "an image can only benefit from being sexy, right? Especially if you're a guy and want to sell lots of albums and tickets-"

Soul snorts and melts into the beanbag chair. "'M not going to sell my body in order to sell my music. I want… y'know," he murmurs vaguely, waving a hand in the air between them. Maka raises her brows. "... Want the music to speak for itself. It's got a message. Want them to hear the message, not spend their time ogling my biceps."

Her papa could learn a thing or two from this bleary eyed stoner, who spends his time cuddled up on a tie dye-printed beanbag chair and draws on his arms with pen when he's feeling out of sorts.

"But if they like your music, they like your brain," she says thoughtfully. "And school is meant to help nurture the mind."

" _Maka."_

"I'm just saaaaying," she starts, tugging on his pant leg playfully. "It couldn't hurt to show up to class every now and again. I'm sure it'd get your dad off of your back. It would only help your grades, you know."

Soul groans and leans his head back. His jaw is so nice, she finds herself thinking, as she admires the pretty curve of his throat, the angle of his chin. How did Soul Evans manage to both win the genetic lottery and flunk out? He's such an odd mix, simultaneously both pretty and intimidating, high cheekbones and sharp, sharp teeth. Add in his white hair and red eyes, and Maka wonders how anyone so unique could possibly exist.

And yet he's here with her, flesh and bone, lips pursed as he whistles slowly.

She feels so _vanilla_ sitting beside him. Tiny, tiny blonde, with too many freckles and no hips or tits to speak of. Compared to him, she fades into the background. Which is almost humorous, considering the fact that it's Soul who usually wants to remain out of focus.

The grass is always greener on the other side. Maka tugs on his pant leg again.

He tilts his head back down and watches her through those dark, droopy eyes of his. Stupid pretty stoner. "Nothin's gonna ever impress him. You know that."

"I think passing some of your classes would _placate_ him, at least," Maka insists. "We could spend a summer at the beach, instead of you in summer school while I babysit Kilik's siblings."

He shrugs and melts off of the beanbag. Before long, he's shoved her books away and finds a home on her lap, cheek pressing flush against her thigh. "You're leaving early this summer for college anyway," he mumbles, breath warm on such sensitive, virgin skin. Maka doesn't dare tremble, but a blush is inevitable; from Soul's position, face mashed into her bare skin, he can't see a thing, and it feels a little like getting away with murder, like pulling the sheet over him. "Just wanna… make the most of the time we have now."

_Something_ clenches in her chest. "We can still email. And talk on the phone. You could go to college near me."

He squirms and peeks up at her through his long hair. "I'm not getting into college, Maka. You know that."

"But you're _so smart,_ Soul."

He's much too serene for such a serious topic. _Sober_ Soul would be fidgeting by now and scribbling on his arm in black ink. "School's for chumps," he mutters, but presses his frown against her thigh and hides himself away in the fabric of her skirt. Maka isn't foolish enough to correct him - _she is not a chump, thank you very much_ \- but instead combs her fingers through his hair, working her way through knots and tangles.

The hair along his neck almost has a curl to it. Maka bites back a smile. His flat-ironing only lasts so long. Twirling a finger along the waves, she sighs, "You're so cool."

She feels his smile. "All that and a bag of chips?"

"Even if you're blazed half of the time."

He muffles a whine into her lap. "Like… a quarter of the time," he says, and Maka can practically hear the pout in his voice. "Don't knock it till you try it. It's like… everything's easier. And numb. 'Nd like… the music."

"The music?"

He nods and sighs, wetting his lips. Maka tries not to squirm beneath the tip of his tongue dabbing at her thighs. Goodness, that has thoughts buzzing she'd rather keep quiet. In order to combat it, she bites her _own_ lip and thinks of anything but Soul's mouth, of Soul's stupidly dexterous _tongue_.

"Means something. Speaks to me."

"Pianoman," she teases, fingers tangled in his hair.

"Mmm," he hums, yawning. "Gonna miss you."

They have a whole eleven months until August. They have time. Her departure isn't until the summer, and it's the fall of their senior year - sitting and worrying on the imminent change won't solve anything, so Maka brushes her thumb just beneath his ear and feels him practically purr into her lap. There is still so much time before she has to leave. Beach trips can still happen, even if Soul doesn't manage to graduate with her. Blake's Halloween party. Late night drives, with his stereos on low and the wind in her face.

Sitting on the cusp of adulthood is just as scary as it is exciting, and Maka doesn't feel any more prepared for it than she does her parents' inevitable split.

Better to think about something else. Maka might not bury her worries in pot and a numbing high, but she has her own distractions - like the bleary-eyed boy nearly napping in her lap. "Blake invited us to his Halloween party."

Soul doesn't even move. "Isn't it like…"

"September? Yes. He said there'd be pizza."

"I could go for pizza," he says thoughtfully.

He can always go for pizza. It's okay, though. So can she. Even if he likes gross things like _fish_ on his pizza. Maybe she's vanilla for just liking cheese. Maybe she's just a buzz kill. Either way, anchovies are definitely not all that, and Soul should know that his taste is gross and nobody wants to kiss him with fish breath.

Well, Maka doesn't want to kiss him with fish breath. Liz is undetermined.

Maka banishes the thought and continues combing her fingers through his hair. She's resolved to enjoy the time she has left with him, anyway, before college and the summer of change and adulthood starts. There are just seven months left of childhood and adolescence. Seven months of hiding away in their treehouse and ignoring the world as it moves around them.

Instead of dwelling on it, Maka says, "You should go as Count Chocula."

Soul peeks at her through his messy bangs. "Huh?"

"You know," she says, grinning, gesturing at her mouth. "Teeth?"

Soul's too mellowed out to give her shit for it. He just sighs and mashes his face back into her lap, and Maka doesn't even heckle him for drooling on her; instead, she just laughs and sinks lower into her own beanbag chair, basking in the comfort of it all. For now, this is enough. Life is pretty okay just being with him, even if time is ticking away.

She'll just have to make the most of the time she's given. Eleven months is a long time.


	3. black cat

**1998**

.

They meet Blair the second weekend in September.

Walking is not exactly Soul's favorite activity, but he's weak to a good puppy dog pout, and Maka thinks she's pretty cute in her overalls, so anything is possible. They're just walking down the street, Soul hardly paying attention to where he's going as he taps away at his gameboy while she makes use of a stray hop-scotch. All of a sudden, the tiny black cat darts out from a bush, nearly tripping the both of them; Maka gasps and grabs onto Soul's flannel, wobbling dangerously on one foot while he puts the brakes on, throwing an arm out to block her chest from a potential collision.

The cat is very small. And very unafraid - she stands in their path with peaked ears, nose pointed towards them, wide yellow eyes trained on them fearlessly. What a cute little kitty she is, too, with a long, slender tail and soft, dark fur. She's small but not a kitten, Maka thinks, but she's certainly youthful nonetheless.

"Fuck!" Soul exclaims, clapping his free hand over his heart. "Scared the shit out of me."

Maka ducks beneath his outstretched arm and holds her hand out to the cat. "Aw!" she gushes, as the feline blinks at her, tail shifting behind her. "It's just a little bitty kitty cat," Maka cooes, and then she's dropping down to her knees, voice high and fluttering. She's doing that thing humans do when faced with tiny animals, speaking to them as if they are babies and incapable of understanding speech otherwise, and she definitely hears Soul stifle a little laugh as she makes kissy sounds at the animal.

It works, though, and the mysterious black cat approaches her, sniffing her fingers curiously.

"You really shouldn't pet strays," Soul says bluntly.

"She's so healthy, though," Maka says, still in her baby voice; kitty cat ducks under and presses her head into Maka's palm, and Maka pets merrily, gasping in glee. "Look how clean she is! I bet she's just lost, Soul."

He approaches, and Maka can feel him hovering over her, his jeans brushing against the baggy legs of her overalls. "Your mom's allergic to cats. You can't keep her. And like you said, she probably already has an owner-"

"But she's so cuuuuuute," Maka whines, lip wobbling as she peers up at him. He's standing in just the right spot to block the sun, and the light halos him, almost, making him look more angelic and heavenly than any boy in a Nirvana shirt has a right to. Soul schools his expression into a scowl and she whines, scooping the nameless mystery cat into her arms. "Look at this face!"

Soul has such a hard time maintaining his alleged _bored indifference_ when faced with a tiny cat. He melts, scowl loosening, the corners of his lips twitching and threatening to give way to a giddy little grin, and he folds his arms over his chest - probably, she thinks, in a vain attempt to maintain his cool-guy persona. But Maka knows the truth. Maka sees the way he can't take his eyes off the meowing cuddlebug in her arms. She knows he wishes he was the one holding such a bundle of joy and fur. He's not fooling anyone.

Still, he tries, swallowing as he forces his eyes to Maka's. "Is she wearing a tag?"

A quick search solves everything, and the metal of her collar is cold beneath Maka's hands. The capital 'B' stands out more than anything, outlined in bedazzled lettering. "Blair," she reads, pausing to kiss her sweet little head. "It just says 'Blair'. Nothing else."

He chuffs and looks over her shoulder pointedly. "That's bunk. Imagine getting lost all the way out here," he grunts, and Maka can practically see the strain in his face. Silly Soul, trying so hard to be tough in the face of undeniable cuteness. "Yer mom's still allergic."

Maka stands, finally, still cradling the cat to her chest. Kitty rests her face on Maka's left tit and sighs contentedly. Soul makes a noise and moves to jab his hands into his pockets instead. "But she's such a good kitty."

Soul snorts. "You don't know that."

He's being a butt. To prove a point, Maka shoves the bundle of joy into his arms and he flails momentarily, horrified at the prospect of nearly dropping her. He's got a better grip on her before long, hands clutching the furry little morsel close to his chest, cradling her in his arms as he shoots Maka a panicked stare. There are exclamation points in his eyes and it's almost humorous watching the cat try to paw her way up out of his grasp and onto his broad shoulder while he so blatantly broadcasts his distress.

There's something adorable about watching a tall, grumpy man handle small animals. Small cats, especially, with their little pink noses and soft faces. This particular cat seems to quite like Soul's flannel, and rubs her face against the buttons of it.

"Maka-!"

Beaming, she blurts, "She likes you, Soul! Aw!"

"I can't-" he squirms, melting inevitably beneath the sheer tooth-rotting cuteness of such a small cat. "She's a wiggle worm and I don't want to drop her."

"She didn't wiggle for me," Maka says innocently.

Flowers would wilt beneath the look he shoots at her.

"Lucky you," he mutters, before finally bending over and allowing Blair the cat to leap her way down, landing gracefully beside him. "She kept trying to bite me," he insists, but still takes the time to scratch beneath her furry little chin and pet down the line of her back. "Stupid."

"She's not stupid!"

Soul stands and resumes his former position, hands sunken deep into the pits of his pockets. "Yeah, yeah, you're right," he mutters, turning toward her and beginning his slouching shuffle back toward her. Behind him, Blair watches, sitting there on the sidewalk so calmly, head tilted. Her tail shifts behind her. "Let's go, before Blockbuster closes. Say goodbye to your friend."

"But-!"

"I'm not letting you rope me into watching Clueless again, Albarn. _As if._ "

.

Movie night is always a battle.

Mostly because, right, Soul likes to pretend that he's a real tough nut and too cool for things like romcoms and animated flicks. Sometimes, if she plays her cards right, she can twist his arm into agreeing to movie musicals, if just because "the score is particularly good" (whatever _that_ means) and the dance numbers are well choreographed. Soul is nothing if not a snob when it comes to music, and at least if such a thing is essential to the plot of the movie, he can stomach almost anything - as long as the songs and compositions are to his standards, of course, which is always hit or miss.

But _most of the time_ they can't seem agree on a movie. In cases like these, they decide the obvious answer is to rent two and turn the night into a double feature. Sometimes Maka picks out creature features or classics and sometimes Soul chooses movies she's never heard of.

Maka raises a brow and sets down _Forrest Gump._ "What is that?"

"Cover looks cool," Soul says, shrugging. It's certainly _dark;_ Maka can't exactly make out the shape or silhouette of whatever is supposed to be decorating the cover, and that's never a good sign. The last time Soul took one of these movies home, he'd fallen asleep thirty minutes in, drooling in her hair and leaving Maka to watch _Batman Returns_ on her own. Bitterly. "I trust cool looking things."

"Shouldn't," Maka retorts cheekily. "How do you feel about _The Nightmare Before Christmas?_ "

He seems torn. _Caught._ There's nothing Soul loves more than dark imagery and a catchy theme. As always, he feigns disinterest, ironing out his expression as he shrugs. "Eh," he says noncommittally, but Maka can read between the lines like the bookworm she is. His interest is obvious, despite the way he broodily chocks his head to the side, and when he says, "Whatever, it's your pick," Maka knows she's made the right choice. Hook, line and sinker.

Movie nights are always more fun if they're both into one of the movies anyway.

And a happy Soul means a happy Maka, so she nods and hugs the dvd case to her chest, pleased with her decision. She doesn't mention the way the corner of his lips curls into a grin at her choice, or the way his step has a little more bounce when he turns to go put his selection back, just silently pats herself on the back and scurries after him, fluttering like a butterfly.

"Are you-" he stops, turning to watch her. "Maka, are you _skipping?_ "

Pinking, she insists, "I'm _excited,_ " plopping beside him and bumping his hip in an act of companionship. He doesn't budge, but does crack long enough to raise a brow at her antics, looking taller once she's planted herself firmly beside him.

It's not like she ever forgets he's tall, but sometimes - like right now - she's reminded all at once just how dramatic their height difference has become. In their early years (read: middle school) Maka had been the taller one, if only just by an inch or so, but it had made all the difference to her. Now, though, they've both risen past the cusp of puberty and are well on their way to young adulthood. Soul stands a good head taller than her - and despite being a bit of a string bean, he's broader than she remembers, too.

Part of her wonders what those shoulders look like when they're not curtained with oversized flannel. And then Maka puts that part of herself in time out for bad behaviour.

"We're in public," Soul says, snorting, rocketing her back to the present time and out of her dreamspace.

"And?"

He seems to pause at this, deliberating, for a moment, between the rack of movies before them and her face. After a bit, he shrugs, rolling his eyes and bumping her right back. His hips are higher than hers, and Maka feels the gentle shove knock into her waist, and she wobbles for a moment, caught off balance. He grins more at that, reaching out to grab the back of her overalls, muttering, "Careful there, twinkle toes."

She huffs and shoves him back. "Hmph! Maybe I'll go trade in this movie for something else." Perhaps it sounds too much like a threat, because his brows actually knit together, and the power surges through her dangerously. "Like _Pretty In Pink._ "

"You're a tyrant," he says bluntly, still with a grip on one of her straps. Despite his tone, he still takes the time to adjust it, smoothing it over the swell of her shoulder so that the front of her overalls hangs even. " _Nightmare Before Christmas_ and double the snacks sound like a deal?"

"Only if you let me pay this time."

He's got the damn strap of her overalls in his grip like a leash. "Fat chance."

"Sooooul!"

"Let me act like the pretentious, spoiled asshole my parents raised me to be. C'mon, movies and food, my treat."

He has such a backwards way of looking at things. Cheeks puffed, she pouts at him, folding her arms across her chest. Most days, Soul doesn't like spending his parents' money - says it makes him seem dependent on them. They've spent so much time and energy trying to force their son's creative energy into a neat, compact box - but apparently it's okay now. She wonders if it's a chivalry thing, not wanting to make the girl pay. And if it is, he'd better know that it's bogus, thinking like that; she's not the type of girl who wants to be treated like a princess. Maka wants to be treated like an equal.

Pouting, she says, "You don't like spending your parent's money."

"Not on me."

Do not blush. Do not blush. But he's got a charming, crooked smile, and _drat._ "You're going to be watching the movie, too!"

Soul shrugs and releases his hold on her strap. "It's mostly for you. Don't mind spending my folks' dough on you. It's different."

"It's still _spending_ it."

"Yeah, but not for shit they want me to. _I_ can rely on myself," Soul mumbles, then nudges her shoulder before shuffling down the aisle and towards the registers.

Maka is unsure if his chivalry is an insult or a compliment. Is he implying she cannot do the same and rely on herself? Because - hoo, boy, is he wrong, and _boy,_ is he playing with fire. There's not a doubt in her mind that Soul's delicate skin would burn with ease, should she choose to release hellfire upon him. Squinting at him suspiciously, she asks, "And I can't?"

Soul swings his keys around his finger and shrugs. "Nah, you can. Just thought you'd want to save your babysitting money for something important, and not just another movie night with me."

_Just_ another movie night. _Oh, Soul, you don't even know the half of it._ Doesn't even know she'd cleared her schedule and definitely blew Tsubaki and Crona off in order to find the time to _do nothing with him._ Like he's not at the top of her list. _Schnikies_ \- he doesn't even know it, either. Oblivious Soul doesn't know he's got her heart wrapped up like one of Blake's wrestling moves, tangled and tied like a pretzel.

And Maka will not rock the boat. Instead, she bites her lip and says, "I have my own money, Soul," as if such a feeble response will actually deter him.

Somehow his snail's pace beats her to the register. Somehow, he doesn't say anything at all when her knuckles brush against his - and Maka plays off such a flub with ease, grabbing for the plastic bag in his hand instead of focusing on wondering what his fingers might feel like between hers. It's such a silly thing to obsess over, she tells herself. There are more pressing matters in the world than Soul Evans' (pretty) hands, and she is not the type of girl to lose her head over a guy. Especially her best friend. Her best friend who may or may not be sleeping with someone else.

Maka is definitely not that type of girl. Reeling in the Albarn in her blood has to be easier than this.

.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my favorite sister-in-law."

Wes Evans is as flattering as he is embarrassing, and Soul shoves his way past his big brother before Maka's mouth has the chance to leak like a faucet. She still pinks, though, blushing brightly, and Maka tugs her pigtails down over her cheeks and shuffles in behind him, hoping Soul's much broader shoulders will shield her from Wes' good-natured prying and dazzling smile.

No such luck. He laughs fondly and shuts the door behind her. "I like your patches, Maka."

She is helpless to such bait. Despite the heat in her cheeks, Maka spins on her feet and releases her hair. "Oh!" she says, looking down at herself; sure enough, there are the patches she'd spent so long stitching in with the help of her uncle Stein only weeks ago. "Thanks, Wes."

His teeth are so white. Perhaps it should be more disturbing than it is, but instead she's just a little distracted. Maybe even a little impressed. "They're cute. I like the Pikachu one."

Soul rolls his eyes and groans dramatically. "Not all anime characters are Pikachu, Wes."

"Well, how am I supposed to know! You crazy kids and your animos and mangos."

Resistance is futile, and Maka finds herself laughing before she can help it. Wes only grins further and hikes up his jeans. Beside her, Soul practically radiates gloom, and takes her hand into his before she can say anything else.

It's like a bomb has gone off. Nobody speaks for a while. Wes's eyes drop down to their clasped hands with obvious intent and Maka squeezes Soul's palm, just to make sure reality is as warm and soft as she thinks it is. His skin is suspiciously soft in some places, delicate baby skin that does not belong anywhere on a man so intent on being seen as gloomy and dangerous. She likes it, though. It makes holding his hand that much more pleasant.

Even if his hands are softer than hers. Hopefully he can forgive her for her lackluster skin care.

Wes looks like he wants to say more. In fact, he might've even opened his big mouth and suggested something politely out of line, as he always does, if it weren't for his snarly-looking baby brother yanking on Maka's hand quite suddenly. And just like that, the calm is broken, the voyeuristic moment is over, and Maka's stumbling.

"Later," he grunts, though at who she's unsure, and then tugs her through the hallway. Maka struggles to kick off her Converse before she treads mud through the Evans' stark-white carpet and hurries up the stairs after him.

"Don't do anything I would do up there!" Wes calls from below, and Maka burns, burns, _burns._

Soul isn't even a little bit flushed though. He shoves his way through his door, leads her through and then slams it behind him.

Maka can't help but jump. Shoulders caving, she asks, "Are you mad?"

He snorts and plucks the Blockbuster bag from her hands. Then his hand is on her head, affectionately ruffling her hair, and Maka knows even without looking into a mirror that her pigtails are lopsided now. "Not mad," he says, then turns his back to her while shoving CD cases off of his bed to make a place for her to sit. It's just his bed, she tells herself, and she's been there before multiple times without sexual connotations, but it appears she's hopeless lately and can't help but let her mind go a little wild.

_Focus,_ Albarn. "So the slammed door was just for show?"

He shoots her a grin over his shoulder. "Wasn't gonna let you marry my brother in the entryway, sorry."

" _I don't want to marry Wes!"_

He busies himself with fixing his bed again. His pillow hits the headboard with a soft plop and then he's smoothing out his blankets as he says, "Mrs. Maka Evans in pink glitter pen suggests otherwise, Bridezilla."

Gawking, Maka wonders how any one boy could be _so stupid._

First things first, though, she has to get to the bottom of this. Blood trilling, she shoves him down onto the mattress, plants her hands on her hips and shouts, "You read my _diary?!"_ because it's the only way he could have plucked _that one_ straight from her 13-year-old self's wish list.

For his part, Soul looks guilty. That dip in his brows reeks of regret, and he folds in on himself, shoulders caving as he leans up on his elbows. Avoiding her eyes is his next plan, apparently, and righteous Maka isn't having any of it. "It was just open, and you were in the bathroom, a-aaaand, hey!" he snaps, dropping to lay on his back when Maka leans over to get in his face. There's a curious heat glowing along the ridge of his nose, and this close, Maka can see the line of his freckles. "Sorry," he mutters. "It was shitty of me."

"Yes," she says, very pointedly, "It was shitty of you. That's an invasion of privacy! You'd be so angry at me if it were the other way around."

Soul stares at the ceiling instead. "I'd be pissed," he admits.

Something's bubbling in her chest, and Maka isn't quite confident enough to name it anger. "Who I want to marry is none of your business," she huffs, and Soul notes mutely, eyes still trained skyward. "I haven't- I haven't had a crush on Wes since I was twelve, Soul. And you said it yourself, he's way too old for me!"

He huffs, then blows his hair from his eyes. "You were blushing."

Not wrong. Not even a little bit wrong - she _had_ been blushing - but Maka's been sporting rosy cheeks more often than not lately in his presence, and there's no way Soul's that dumb, right? Or maybe he's purposefully ignorant, looking the other way and searching for other solutions to the answer he respectfully does not want to acknowledge. And for a moment, her feelings are hurt, and the crack in her chest is blown wide open and aches.

And then he shrugs, expression even. "You can like him if you want, I guess."

"I don't _like_ -like him," she insists.

"But if you did, and if you're lying to me because you're embarrassed or whatever, that's okay, too," Soul mumbles, before finally looking her in the eyes. He's so fidgety when he's sober, and so keyed up, but Maka can barely resist the urge to brush his bangs back and kiss his forehead, reassuring him that everything is okay and no, she does not want to bang his brother. Wes is not the Evans for whom she longs.

But _Liz,_ she reminds herself. Liz, Soul's maybe-kinda-sorta-girlfriend. Or fuckbuddy. Whatever they are, Maka's sure there's not a place for her. And she respects that.

Even if it stings a little bit. She sort of hates herself for the overalls now, no matter how cute the patches. It makes her feel young. Shapeless. Childish, even, in comparison to long-legged, full-figured Liz.

Maybe she _has_ been pining over the wrong Evans. Maka sighs and stands up, arms dropping at her sides. "Just drop it, Soul. It doesn't matter."

The bed creaks beneath Soul's weight, and his knees bump hers as he pushes himself to sit on the edge of his mattress. His Batman sheets seem almost comical now. He's had them since he was twelve, too, only the sheets are still around and Maka's grown past schoolgirl crushes on older boys and moved on to inappropriate crushes on her best friend.

It _does_ matter. So much.

"Whatever," he says quietly. Maka's hands are made hyperaware of their emptiness, and the absence of his fingers between hers. "Sit down, I'll start the movie. Snacks are still in the bag."

The discarded bag on the floor. In all of the rush to escape Wes's perceptive stare and alleged heart-stealing nature (and their little tussle on Soul's bed), the Blockbuster bag hadn't made it out unharmed. Candy boxes spill out from the mouth of the bag, as does _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ , looking out of place amidst Soul's collection of mixtapes, crumpled papers, and his crudely hidden bong, tucked shoddily behind his door.

To think, in a little less than a year, all of this will be hindsight. Weekend nights won't be spent on Soul's bed, bumping elbows with him while they make their way through Blockbuster's library of hits and misses.

The quiet singes her eyes. Maka will not cry over anything so silly. Adulthood can wait, she thinks, as she sprawls out on Soul's bed and hugs one of his pillows to her chest. "I think I'm going to be Sporty Spice for Halloween."

He perks at the conversation topic, then laughs shortly. "Nah."

"It's not your decision!"

"But you're Baby Spice," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Patty can be Sporty, can't she?"

"But I want to be Sporty!"

He leans over and tugs on one of her crooked pigtails. Stupid smug grin. "Sure, Maka."

"I- My hair means nothing!"

"I'm just saying," he says to the ceiling, crawling his way back onto the bed and dropping himself beside her, elbow bumping into the windowsill. Why he always picks the wall side is beyond her - he's so much bigger than she is, and so much more likely to get stuck in the crack of the bed, but still, he perseveres. "You wouldn't even need to bother with a wig. Pretty sure you already own tiny dresses and platform shoes too, so-"

Maka kicks at him. "I have abs!"

He's caught choking on air while fishing the remote out of his blankets. "You- I _guess,_ " Soul says vaguely, expression pinching curiously. "But how do you know Baby Spice doesn't have abs? Maybe she's secretly a fuckin' badass beneath all that cute. Could crush a man's skull with her thighs."

Staring at him, she asks, "Why is his head between her legs?"

He sputters and fumbles with the remote. "Please tell me your parents gave you the sex talk. I don't want to explain _hitting it_ to you-"

"But-" Oh. _Oh_. Well, that changes the conversation's tone considerably. "I wouldn't-?"

His stare is dark for a moment, less legible. Bookworm can't seem to read between the lines. "Said _Baby,_ not you."

Such a carefully veiled compliment. Maka presses her lips together and debates on drawing it out further, on uncovering just why Soul had thought to compliment her thighs, of all things, but the moment fizzles out like a candle's flame and then the VCR is running, and Soul's long arms reach for the lamp. She blinks in the smoky aftermath, an uncomfortable coil still burning low in her tummy as he settles beside her, brushing skin to skin. A bare arm is only a bare arm, but it feels so damn intimate, and Maka wonders when Soul had the time to shed his flannel and jacket.

Had Soul just implied that she could crush a skull between her legs? Had Soul implied that a man would want to _be_ between her legs?

_Baby, not_ _**you.** _

That familiar, scary rush of change surges through her again, and Maka tucks herself against him and focuses on Jack Skellington instead of anything else.

.

Her parents are fighting again.

Maka, of course, is used to it. It's been going on for months - nah, maybe even _years_ now - and while annoying, and discouraging, eventually it just begins to fade into background noise. She wouldn't have even noticed the change of air in the house had it not been for Crona's tight expression and wobbly fingers. Poor thing never misses a stitch, but their multicolored friendship bracelet seems loopy, almost, falling apart somewhere in the middle, where the braided strings overlap.

Color Maka guilty. She slips the headphones from her ears and sighs. "Sorry about them. Do you want to go do something else?"

Crona nibbles their lip. Fidgeting, they shoot a weary look at Maka's door. Closed as it may be, the whisper-shouts of Mama still carry through like a bullet, and with each exasperated, passionate exclamation, Crona's shoulders cave further. "U-Um."

"We can go," Maka says sincerely. Headphones are dropped into her lap, and she pushes the walkman away from her. "We can get pizza, my treat?"

"You a-always treat."

With a shrug, she hops to her feet and moves to wiggle into her sandals. "I don't mind. Soul never lets me go halfsies, so I like to pay it forward," she says, bending over to secure the clasp around her ankles. Maka turns to watch Crona eye her from their spot on her bed, cross-legged and suspicious. "What?"

The fighting still rumbles from down the hall, but Crona presses their finger to their chin and hums thoughtfully. "H-He doesn't?"

Perhaps this is a conversation for another time. Like while her mother is not very aggressively accusing her father of sleeping with "that tramp from down the street," quote unquote. Papa's bumbling response begins and Maka's already checked out of the conversation, reaching over to grab Crona's hand in hers and give an encouraging tug. "C'mon!"

"W-What- not the window, no, please!"

Maka yanks it open and plops her feet out. "We're on the first story, c'mon!"

"But-! It's not an _exit!"_

"Would you rather go through the living room and say bye to my mama and papa?"

Her point gets across. Crona doesn't complain anymore, just grimaces as Mrs. Albarn screams, clearly vexed, and follows their friend out the window. It's a sunny day out, and Maka almost considers crawling back in through her window to grab sunscreen for the both of them, but decides against it as Papa's sob tears through space and time. Wisely, she slams the window shut. A little sunburn will be worth saving the both of them from that particular headache.

Maybe she's not as desensitized as she thought. Heart slamming in her chest, Maka forces herself to stay calm and begins trailing her way through the lawn. Don't think about it, don't think about it, just carry on - she's a big girl now, very nearly an adult, and the time for feeling scared is long past. Besides, with Crona in tow, she doesn't have time to play crybaby. It would be insensitive for her to be visibly worked up over her feuding parents, what, with Crona's past; they might be doing better now that Sid and Nygus have adopted them, but a looming past of terrible mothers is still just that - _looming,_ like a dark cloud overhead.

Maka is strong. Maka is fearless. A little _(year-long)_ fight won't scare her.

It's only once she's over the floral barrier between yards that she sees the cat. Blair's long, dark tail pokes up like a beacon and Maka nearly tramples over Mrs. Evans' precious petunias. Crona stumbles at her feet, very nearly flat-tiring her as their mini two-person parade comes to an end.

"Is that-?"

" _Blair!"_ Maka delights, dropping down to her knees. Crona flails a bit, muttering about dirt and mulch and _what if they have thorns, Maka,_ but the blonde has eyes for the tiny kitty mewing at the window.

Said kitty turns her head and blinks owlishly at her. "Mrow?"

"Y-You know this cat?" Crona asks, carefully, thoughtfully stepping over a section of roses.

"Kind of? Soul and I met her on the street the other day, and- oh!" Maka says, still leaning over, hand extended out for sniffing and such. "You followed us back, didn't you? What a smart girl you are. I wonder if he's home…"

Kneeling, Crona watches as Blair nuzzles Maka's palm and greedily soaks in a gratuitous number of head pats and chin scratches. When it's clear she comes in peace, they also reach out, and Blair doesn't seem to be picky when it comes to affection at all. Not even moments later, Blair's crawled her way up to Crona and plants herself right in their lap, purring noisily.

And how content they are with a cat in their arms. Smiling, they pet her gingerly, tenderly. It's heartwarming, watching them interact, and Maka clambers to her feet and knocks on Soul's window without preamble.

Somehow, she's not expecting to see Liz staring back at her. And yet, there's a part of her that's also _not_ surprised - it's more disappointment, the sharp edge of realization, and Maka presses her hand to her chest, recoiling as if she'd been burned. In a way, she has. What business does a girl their age have being in a boy's room alone?

_Hypocrite._ It had been Maka herself only a night before, and yet - and yet it's _not like that,_ she thinks, lips pressed together tightly. It's never been like that, not with Soul, never with Soul, no matter what the childish, teenage part of her thinks or wants. He's her best friend, not her boyfriend, and that means she has no real claim over him.

She thinks of Mama, sitting up late in the kitchen with tea and the darkness brewing under her eyes. She thinks of Papa, coming home smelling like perfume and alcohol, hair a tangled mess and suit askew. And then she looks at Liz, with her long hair and dark eyeliner and sharp, gunmetal eyes, and - and Maka just can't help it, she jumps to conclusions, because it's who she is, and everything she knows about men points in that direction.

She's unreasonably hurt, to say the least. And perhaps Liz notices it, because she says something over her shoulder and then cracks the window open. "Maka?"

An Albarn girl is nothing if not strong, and Maka will not disappoint. Fists clenched at her side, she says, "Blair's here."

Liz's brows raise. "Who?"

"Blair," she repeats. "Uh. Tell Soul his cat is here."

"He has a cat?"

There's swearing in the background. Liz stares over her shoulder again, and with the change of positioning, Maka can see into his bedroom, all dark walls and band posters, and the shadow of a boy shuffling over, white hair a sharp, devilish halo. Such a familiar slouch sharpens the ache from pinpricks to a single knife, lodged in her back.

Deep breaths. _You're overreacting, Maka._

He's not her boy. He just smiles at her, soft and sweet, sometimes, and relies on her through thick and thin. Soul just holds her hand sometimes, and drives her around when her head is full of impending doom and the stress of college applications and the likes.

His eyes are so _dark._

"Sup?" He asks, finally, poking his head out the window. "Crona?"

They give a shy wave, one hand still tucked protectively around the black cat. Maka watches those dark, dark eyes slip down, and then Soul's expression switches from sleepy confusion to recognition, and then flat out exhaustion. "You brought the cat?" he asks, shifting to look at Maka, instead of the cuddle pile seated beside his mother's hedges. "Did you seriously go out hunting for the damn cat, Maka?"

The fact that he so easily believes she's that stubborn is a little insulting. Maka's hands find their home, planted on her hips. "No! I found her out here-"

"What?"

"Maybe she followed you two home," Maka suggests, all the while struggling to keep too much _suggestion_ out of her tone. The two of them, alone, _together,_ heading towards Soul's place - well, his bedroom has never been much of a loveshack, but beggars can't be choosers, and where else do couples go to have promiscuous, headboard bumping sex?

That mental image certainly leaves a sour taste in her mouth. Maka purses her lips.

"Why would she follow us home?" Soul asks tonelessly.

"I don't know! She liked you, Soul."

"I don't want a cat."

"What, not a fan of pussy?" Liz chirps up, and he flushes almost instantaneously. Crona gives a startled, scandalized _gasp_ and Maka grits her teeth. "She's cute, Soul. Keep her. Clearly she's chosen you."

" _Chosen_ me," he repeats.

She snorts and elbows him. "Babes dig cats, dude. Trust me. Total chick magnet."

"What makes you think I need help picking up girls?"

This is one show Maka doesn't want a front row seat to. Liz's smile curls and she leans forward, just enough to whisper something in his ear, and Soul goes rigid, lower lip trapped beneath his teeth. He seems uncomfortable, shifting nervously as Liz grins only further, and Maka would rather empty the contents of her stomach in Mrs. Evans' petunias than stand here any longer and watch this shameless display of flirting unfold. There is a limit to her seemingly boundless tolerance, and it was crossed approximately thirty seconds ago, when Liz gave her an obvious once over and smirked right into Soul's stupid (messy, cute, _dreamy_ ) hair.

"Just don't let her sleep outside, okay? It'll be cold," Maka cuts in. There's a wicked sort of righteous glee that fills her as they break apart, looking as if they'd been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Assertive of her existence, she reminds them that, "Even if it's just for the night, it would be best to give her someplace to sleep. I would, but-"

"Mom's allergic," Soul says quietly, scratching his neck. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Give her here."

Separating Blair from Crona is no easy feat. In the short time they've been together (a whole fifteen minutes, _maybe_ ) they've grown close. But it's for the best, and Maka reminds Crona of this as they shuffle over and hand the cat through the window.

Once she's in a new pair of arms, Blair sees no problem with being passed like a torch. She doesn't even squirm out of Soul's grasp. Instead, she tries to climb closer to him, demanding, like the greedy kitty she seems to be, when pets are in question, that her new master give her attention. It's a little funny to watch Soul struggle to adjust to such blatant affection, and seeing such a tall, grumpy guy cradle a tiny cat is just _adorable._ It sort of melts her ire a bit.

_Just a bit._ Then Liz cooes and Maka feels like a bad person all over again.

"D-Do you have cat food?" Crona pipes up, tugging on the sleeves of their sweater. "She's probably hungry…"

Soul sighs and tries to untangle Blair's paws from his shirt. "Wes can probably whip something up-"

"We could go to the store," Liz suggests bluntly. "There's some stuff I want to pick up anyways, so it's not like we'll be going out of our way- you two wanna come with? Soul's got a backseat, you know. Plenty of room for a couple of tag alongs."

They really shouldn't. Being with Soul and Liz - watching them interact so effortlessly, watching Liz dangle him in front of her like a favorite accessory - is _distracting,_ to say the least, and there is only so much blatant flirting Maka can stomach before her ends start to fray. At the same time, though, it's not like they can go back home; Mama and Papa are _definitely_ still fighting, and putting Crona back in that same awkward situation would make her just about the worst friend ever. But what choice does she have? Being around Mr. and Mrs. Alternative Rock makes her antsy. Watching Liz shoot smug little smiles Soul's way makes Maka feel decidedly less like _Class Friendliest_ and more like _Most Likely To End Up On A Reality Show,_ and that's certainly not in her plan for the future.

But does her heartache take precedence over Crona's emotional state? Is she really that selfish, to force her friend back into an uncomfortable and possibly catastrophic situation, just because she doesn't want to watch the boy she likes interact with another girl?

Jealous, jealous girl. _Selfish_ girl at that.

Maka spares a glance at Crona. They peer curiously at her, the hems of their sleeves far past their thin fingertips.

There… is always the _treehouse,_ too. All things considered, the two of them could hide away up there, in that sacred, magical bubble away from reality and impending adulthood. But part of her is hesitant; it's Soul's place just as much as it is Maka's, and they've never shared such a private getaway with another soul. Not Blake, not Tsubaki, not even Crona. And inviting someone else in to getaway from it all feels a bit like betrayal.

"What do you think?" Maka asks. "We could still get pizza."

"Pizza with us?" Liz pipes up. "I could go for pizza."

"You can always go for pizza," Soul huffs.

Crona bites their lip. Glances at the bundle of fur purring in Soul's arms. "... Cat toys?"

Powerless. She's powerless to deny such a simple request. Maybe she's not as selfish as she thinks - maybe she's not as much an Albarn as she thought. "Okay," Maka says, shifting, just enough to look Soul in the eye. "If it's okay with you guys?"

"Gee, asking me," he retorts, rolling his eyes playfully, but there's that same warm, bone-melting look in his eyes that always makes Maka a little jelly legged. "What a thought."

"Is it okay or not?"

Soul shrugs, then cracks his neck. "It's all good, I guess."

He _guesses_. So much effort goes into appearing carefree. It must be exhausting. Perhaps that's why there's everlasting darkness stained under his eyes, dark and purple, like a bruise. For someone with a hot girl in his bedroom, he sure doesn't look too enthused. It looks like he hasn't slept in days, which is ridiculous, because he'd definitely napped on Maka's shoulder only a night before.

He's such a puzzle, that boy, with so many tiny, intricate pieces making up one big smattering of color. Like paint splatters on a dark, bleak canvas, still bursting with life.

What other choice does she have than to tag along?


	4. celebrity skin

**1998**

.

His backseat is less familiar.

Between Crona and her sits an overstuffed backpack. Soul's school bag, she presumes - but in all the time Maka's known him, she's only seen him carry the damn thing maybe three times, so it still manages to feel alien to her. What, she wonders, could be crammed in there is beyond her. Perhaps empty binders. Maybe bricks, for all she knows. He sure doesn't attend his classes often enough to warrant actual _textbooks_ in his bookbag. The only thing she is sure of is that it's full - _bursting at the seams_ \- and there's something square with a hard edge jabbing into her side.

Crona seems uncomfortable too. They squirm quietly, trying to collect their knobby knees and long limbs neatly out of the way of their third passenger. Too polite, as usual, to voice their discomfort.

Well. Soul's practically her brother at this point, and Maka has 0 qualms with speaking up on their behalf. "What do you keep in here, rocks?"

He peeks at her through the rearview mirror. "Oh," he says, looking away to glance over to his blind spot before flicking on his blinker. "Sorry, you can uh. Unzip. If you want-"

"But what's _in here?_ I know it's not books!"

Soul scoffs, affronted, but doesn't argue her point. Probably because there's _no way to_ _do that_ while also emerging victorious; her darling best friend of forever is so, so guilty of skipping class to get high or- or _whatever_ he does all day while she's taking notes and studying calculus. He eyes her again, red eyes peeking through overgrown bangs as he mutters, "Stuff."

"Stuff," Maka repeats.

"And _things._ Y'know."

If she knew she wouldn't be asking. It's nervous babble - _classic Soul._ He has something to hide, something he's embarrassed about, and yet he's inviting her in. The sound of the zipper fills the car, and Crona nervously sets their hands in their lap. Curiosity gets the best of the both of them, and their seatbelts strain noisily as Maka pulls the backpack open. Sure enough, there's a… binder of sorts? But she's uncertain what for, and nosy, _nosy_ bookworm just has to have all of the answers. Maka plops the binder down in her lap and cracks it open with a satisfied hum.

" _Hey-"_

Pokemon cards. Lots and _lots_ of Pokemon cards, all separated in individual plastic seams. Like baseball cards, but infinitely more nerdy and mainstream. It's everything Soul tends to insist is below him, like the wanna-be counter culture _badass_ he strives so hard to be.

It's adorable. He has a holographic Jigglypuff. " _Soul!"_

His ears burn pink, poking through tufts of white hair. "Shut up. Collecting is cool, alright? If Wes knew he'd never let me live it down, so-"

"So you keep it hidden in your backpack. In your _car_ ," she finishes, a smile curling along her lips. "Soul, you're better at keeping secrets than I give you credit for."

Soul snorts. "If only you knew."

Whatever dirty secret he's keeping hidden, it has Liz humming in agreement. Maka squashes the bud of jealousy in the dirt and grinds it beneath her heel, gritting her teeth and flipping through the binder to keep her mind off of it. "How long have you been collecting?"

"'Bout a year," he says, pulling into the store's parking lot. "Star's the one who got me into it, you know. Started going on about how they'll be worth something one day, and how fun the game is, and then-"

Crona gasps quietly. It's enough to prompt Liz to turn around in her seat and raise a brow. "What?"

They pink beneath her watchful eye. "I-I," they start, then gulp back their excitement, fiddling with the multiple friendship bracelets lining their wrist. "... H-He has a Gameboy," they admit, smiling lightly. "Is it a Color?"

Soul's laugh rumbles like an engine. It's a low, soft purr, just enough to make Maka clutch the sides of the binder that little bit more tightly. No laugh has any right being so pretty. No laugh should have the power to render her a useless, giggling puddle of girl, and yet here she is, biting her lip, half tempted to press her face to the cool glass of her window to settle the heat in her cheeks.

"Yeah," he says finally, shifting the vehicle into park. His hand on the gearshift is a little too distracting, his fingers a little too pretty, knuckles too pronounced. "Star got me into that, too. D'ya hear there's a Pokemon game coming out for it soon? It sounds rad-"

" _Nerd,"_ Liz teases.

His scowl is so familiar it hurts. Reminiscent of nearly a decade's worth of his characteristic exhaustion with the world around him. She's seen the expression more times than she can count. She's been the source, both singularly and second-handedly, enough times to apparently feel weirdly protective over his snarling face. How strange it is to feel jealous over being _pouted_ at. The sharp bite of possessiveness stings all the way to her gut, where it sinks and festers, rippling through her like some sort of disease.

Maka shuts the binder with a start and kicks her way out of the car, blood thrumming in her ears. It's frustrating, being unable to shake herself out of such overwhelming, nearly _obsessive_ thoughts. This isn't the girl she wants to be, constantly hyper aware of Soul's every mannerism and his influence on everyone else in the room. She shouldn't be so angry over another girl knowing him well. Soul's allowed to have other friends.

It all feels gross. And unfair. He's not a redhead. Soul never smells like Liz's perfume.

And even if he did, _she's not his girlfriend._ Her stupid brain is practically a broken record; Soul can't cheat on her if they were never together, right? What they have is special, yes, regardless of whether it's romantic or not, _regardless_ of whether she's ridden him like a bucking, rambunctious show pony - Soul can _fuck_ Liz if he wants, _period._ Soul can share secret smiles and inside jokes and make music with her if he wants, too, because he's not her boy.

Besides, Maka thinks with biting disappointment, she couldn't make music with him even if he wanted her to. She has the mannerisms of a waning Tamagotchi, and Liz could dance and sing and _strum her bass_ out of a box.

Said songstress gives her a look as she shuts her own door behind her. "What's with you?"

Is there a way she can express her inappropriate resentment without actually saying it? Putting it into words would give it physical presence, would put it into the world, and Maka's not really sure she's ready for such disaster. Why rock the boat if she's the only one sinking? Why burden Liz and Soul's relationship with her feelings of inadequacy?

"Nothing," she says, swallowing thickly. " _Nothing._ Let's roll."

.

Soul's recently uncovered Pokemon obsession has Crona giddy. They bounce on their feet as they walk beside him, going on about evolution and attack stats and other assorted technical nerdiness that Maka doesn't entirely understand yet. She likes Pokemon as much as the next girl, and thinks Pikachu is cute and would love a real-life Eevee to snuggle, but hasn't gotten into it enough to really study the gameplay and strategy of it all.

But apparently Soul has. Apparently Blake has, too, and runs a secret Pokemon trading card game league after school beneath the bleachers, even though they're banned on school property for being too distracting.

Somehow she's not surprised. And somehow she's also not surprised Soul's been indulging in such illegal, forbidden activities either. Something about breaking the rules gives him a thrill and makes him feel like a badass, even if it's something as small as sneaking trading cards onto school grounds in an overstuffed backpack, like some sort of grunge-head pack mule with an affinity for cute pocket monsters. Perhaps it's the little things in life that get him off. Miniscule rule breaking. Chaotic good.

Maka rolls her eyes and stuffs her hands into her jacket pockets. "Boys."

"Dude's dope when he wants to be," Liz says, rubbing her neck idly. "I don't know how you do it, Maka."

"Do what? Hang out with him?" There's no way. She's sure one to talk. "Don't you do that enough yourself?"

"Yeah, but-" Liz rolls her neck, pushing her long hair from her face. "You go from hanging out with him to chilling with Tsu, you know? Crona, too. And they're all sorts of different people, and yet you still manage to fit in with them no matter what. Like glue."

"Glue," she repeats.

"Tsu and Soul are two totally different people," Liz insists. There's a peculiar hook in her brow, and then she's shrugging, almost shyly. "I could go for more Tsu time. Soul's great and all, but he's kind of a buzz kill, you know? Doesn't like parties very much. Tends to shy away behind his keyboard or guitar whenever he can. Guy has a lot of talent but not a lot of guts when it comes down to it. Sort of a debby downer."

This is all textbook Soul. Even in middle school, he'd tended to skip school dances, shying away from concerts in band class and struggling valiantly to fade into the back row of clarinets. Anyone who knows him knows this much is true; and anyone who knows him should know him well enough not to push him into these situations. Because sure, Maka pushes and nags him to go to class, but dragging him out from one college party to another. It just doesn't seem like a very pal-like thing to do.

Maybe there's trouble in paradise. Maka glances at her and Liz gazes over her head airily. "Tsu seems cool."

"I- she is," Maka answers, brow raised. "But I don't know if she'd be into partying any more than Soul is? We usually just stay at home and give each other glitter tattoos while we watch Rugrats."

Liz snorts at that. " _Rugrats."_

"It's _funny._ "

"Just didn't peg the two of you for a show like that, that's all. It's cute that you guys are still into it."

Maka would be more affronted if she didn't sound so strangely earnest about it. Being called _cute_ is usually an invitation for battle, but _this-_ Liz seems almost pink, turning abruptly to browse different brands of eyeliners at once, blonde hair swinging around her like a fluttering cape.

It's weird. She hadn't even given her the chance to defend herself before turning away. It's unlike any teasing she's withstanded before. "Uh?"

"What's… what're you two planning for Halloween?" she asks then, almost loftily. Being able to tell her intentions is hard with her back turned. "I know Patty's planning on doing something with you guys, and she said something about being Sporty Spice-"

"I want to be Sporty Spice!"

That gets Liz's attention. She peeks over her shoulder, hair shifting like a drawn curtain. "Really? Because I pegged you more as Baby-"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Maka whines, folding her arms. "First Soul, and now you. I have _abs._ Tsu would be a better fit for Baby Spice than I am-"

Mrs. Alternative Rock herself hums noncommittally and pops off the lid of an eyeliner pencil, unbidden. "Maybe," Liz says, scribbling on her wrist in kohl-black, dark lashes flickering curiously. "And I mean, Tsu _would_ be cute in those little dresses- buuut I think Soul's onto something there. You've got the hair down already, Albarn. And the whole blushing schoolgirl thing."

"What," she blurts incredulously.

Liz scrubs at her swabbed wrist and tests the tenacity of the eyeliner. "You know. Big eyes. Tiny button nose. Freckles."

"My dad's _Irish._ I'm not doing it on purpose! They just- they're _everywhere,_ " Maka says, gesturing wildly to her face, her shoulders, then down to her knees where sure enough, freckles seem to speckle her like a dalmatian's spots. "And the sun makes it worse, which is just great, because I spend so much time outside and playing sports-"

"They're _cute,_ Maka," Liz interrupts, finally sliding the cap back on the eyeliner pencil and dropping it with the lipsticks. Maka bites her lip. "What he's probably trying to say is that you're cute, and you'd be extra cute in a short skirt and go-go boots. You know. In his weird, grunting sort of way."

It has not crossed her mind, no, that such a message existed. If anything, Maka has been leaning towards the typical _you look like a preteen_ sort of jab, because god knows she's grown up with plenty of those in her youth. Seventeen year old Maka is baby faced, and there's no use fighting such an indisputable fact, but it would certainly be nice to not have to defend her age all of the time. It would be nice to not be constantly embarrassed by her girlish frame and skinny knees, her short stature and wide eyes.

The whole conversation is weird and feels a little derailed. What was the original topic again? Wasn't it something about Tsubaki?

"Tsu would still be a better fit, character wise," Maka says finally, still pouting. She has half a mind to fish out Liz's discarded eyeliner and organize it with its brethren, but the taller girl has already began drifting back down the aisle, and they've definitely lost sight of Soul and Crona by now. "She's the sweet one."

"Hmmm," Liz hums thoughtfully. "Yeah, she is."

"I could be Sporty. Patty could be… someone else."

"Tsu would be hot as Posh."

"But I-"

"Who else is going with you guys? Eruka, right? Hm. Scary, maybe? And then Kim probably wants to be Ginger-"

Her alleged cuteness is a damn curse. "Maybe I want to wear a crop top and intimidate everyone with my rock-hard abs," Maka blurts.

The burst of laughter comes all at once. She jumps, fully unprepared for such a reaction, flinching back out of instinct as Liz shakes her head and pushes her hair from her face. It's the loudest she's heard Liz laugh in a long time - certainly since before the time of dark, dark lipstick and reckless, braless abandon. "Is _that it,_ " Liz asks, still unable to keep the mirth out of her tone, and Maka's not sure if it would be more appropriate to scowl at her humored expression or blush.

Both. Both is probably good.

"I could be her," she insists. "That's not funny-"

"No, no, you're right," Liz says, waving a hand. "You definitely could. I've seen you in a swimsuit, Albarn. It's just funny how badly you want to show off your _rock-hard abs_ instead of just wearing a cute minidress, all things considered."

Clearly, Maka has not considered nearly enough things. She's still definitely caught up in the self-righteous proving herself stage of linear thinking and has not yet passed on into the bigger picture. But what else is there to overthink? If, by some bizarre chance this isn't about making fun of Maka's childish, boobless body and is about something else, what could it possibly be?

Brows furrowed, she asks, "... What things?"

Liz shrugs. "Nothing, except…" And then she's glancing down the aisle, at Soul and Crona's retreating backs, fading into the distance as they talk Pokemon stats and rarity, before looking back to Maka with a renewed glint in her eye. It's mischievous but not ill-meaning, and Maka can't quite place her intentions as neatly as she'd like. "Just between us, Soul has a type."

Yes, and Maka is looking at her. Disappointed, she grunts her agreement. "Blonde?"

"Mmm," Liz hums. "Blonde, for sure. Complete with long legs and a tight ass, too. And what better way to flaunt them than a barely-there hemline, right?"

Linear thinking is doing her no favors. Maka tries following the train of thought but presently, her brain feels a little bit like Blake's shitty truck, aimlessly struggling to rumble to life. Revving, she struggles to connect the dots - because Liz isn't the type to rub it in, right? Has she been outright cruel enough to blatantly flaunt what she's got and dangle it before her like a mouse toy? And if she isn't, by some miraculous chance, why would she push such a subject otherwise? Aren't they kind of dating?

has stopped responding. Cause of death, aggressive bluescreen, cue reboot and eventual dial-up screech.

"... _Okay?_ " she ends up squeaking, both pink in the face and struggling to quell the excited, confused fluttering in her stomach. It's all wrong, though - Maka is not her father's daughter, is not a homewrecker, and is Liz trying to issue a challenge?

"I mean," Liz adds, still grinning, grinning. "I'm sure he's into _rock-hard abs,_ too, should you choose that, instead. But a short skirt does things to that boy."

Dial-up screech initiated. Maka's ears ring. She repeats, " _Okay?!_ "

As if on cue, said skirt-loving grunge-head finally turns around and realizes he's strayed far from the rest of the group. "Oi," he calls, and Maka's blood sings, pounding in her ears and spreading the heat blossoming in her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears. And all the while Liz watches, only smiling further, that curious, unreadable grin, looking somewhere between pleased and amused. It's maddening, the way she's looking at her like she knows something more, something else, the missing piece to this frustrating, life-ruining puzzle.

" _OI,"_ Soul calls again, face settled into a frown. Beside him, Crona squirms, picking at the bracelets lining their wrists.

"Better not keep Oscar the Grouch waiting," Liz finally says, sighing, and brushes past Maka with a smug, exaggerated wink. She can't make heads or tails of it, and feels increasingly angry about such incompetence. "C'mon."

So she… wants Maka to impress Soul? _Soul,_ who Liz is probably messing around with, and spends many afternoons high with, most likely in varying states of undress? It's sounding more and more like some twisted sort of challenge, and certainly a little voyeuristic.

It doesn't add up. At least, not in the way Maka's comfortable with. "Wait!"

Liz glances over her shoulder, clearly amused. "Yeah?"

"... What are you dressing up as?"

Long legged, blonde-haired Liz shrugs. "Oh, I don't do costumes," she admits, and her hips sway as she walks, ass impressive even in baggy jeans.

.

Mama barely looks up from her novel as Maka shuts the door behind her. There's just a glimpse of blue eyes, razor-sharp, cleaving cleanly through Maka's shoddily put together demeanor like tissue. It's eerily silent in the house, and the only lamp that glows off-yellow is the one by the living room couch, where her mother sits, rigidly flipping the page of her book. Other than that, their home is ominous, tense darkness, and not even her parents' room has a sliver of life.

It's all the answer she needs to know how tonight's particular fight went.

The disappointment in her mother's stare is black and white. "You're home late," she says shortly, though Maka knows the ire isn't aimed at her. It's not as though she truly has a curfew, not really - Mama and Papa don't care so much about what she does anyway. Maka's not the one who comes home in the early hours of the morning with tousled hair and rumpled clothes. "Where were you?"

Maka slips her sandals off and squints as her eyes slowly adjust to the low light. "Crona and I hung out with Soul. And Liz."

"I see."

So talkative. There's a reaching in her chest, heart clenching wordlessly, and Maka swallows back her childish pride to face the harsh light of reality. "Where's Papa?"

This time, Mama doesn't even bother looking up. "With his _friends._ "

Drinking buddies. _Friends_ with pretty hair and wide hips and _open legs,_ as Mama would so eloquently put it. The type of people Papa doesn't wear his wedding ring around.

Mama's gaudy diamond glitters in the dull-light of the reading lamp as she clutches her novel that little bit tighter, hands squirming even as her expression remains hard. There is unblinking resolve in her mother's disposition, and the haunting catalyst of change hovers over her like a swan song. If Papa bothers coming home tonight, he'll certainly find himself sleeping on the couch. Her parents will hash it out in passive-aggressive milk-pouring and fork-passing at the breakfast table, and Maka will take her Poptart to go.

But, well, if he _doesn't..._

Suddenly, Maka's not feeling so hungry anymore. Bypassing the kitchen, she presses a soft kiss to her mother's tense brow and pads her way down the hall to her room wordlessly, and Mama doesn't bother stopping her. She knows that, without a doubt, she'll find her mother in the same place come sunrise, the harsh lines of her frown burned into her soul like a scar.

Tonight, Maka flicks her old nightlight on. The dark doesn't scare her, but she's not ready to be a grown-up just quite yet. There are parts of innocent naivety worth keeping.

.

A few weeks later, she dons the little pink dress.

Tsubaki squeals, wearing only a wig cap and slinky back dress as she kneels on Maka's Sailor Moon bedding, roll-on glitter tube in hand. Her bedroom is not nearly big enough to house five dressing teenage girls and yet here they are, all crammed together, bras akimbo and all sporting an impressive amount of skin and Girl Power (™). Maka herself feels a little foolish, wearing such a costume after Liz's confusing suggestion, but nonetheless remains still as the cool gel of the glitter glides smoothly over her cheekbones.

Tsubaki's resulting smile makes it a little more worth it. At least she doesn't mind being Posh instead of Baby. "You look so cute!"

"Thanks," Maka says, smoothing down the hem of her skirt. If at any point during the night she needs to bend it's going to be game over, and someone - likely Blake, with her luck - is going to get an eyeful of striped, girly panties. "Are you sure it's okay?"

"Definitely!"

"Ow _owwww_ ," Patty cat-calls, grinning brightly. Despite everything else, the youngest Thompson sister looks eager, in a bright orange crop-top and blue work-out pants. Her painted-on abs are charming, too, even with the rainbow butterfly stick-on tattoo pasted right beside her belly button. "Looking good, girlie."

Such blatant praise from her potential romantic rival's sibling feels a little weird. Maka swallows down the guilt and accepts it bashfully, waving her off with a half-smile.

As Tsubaki moves away to situate her wig, Maka turns and stares at her reflection in her mirror. Between the multitude of polaroid pictures and photo booth prints lining the border of her vanity mirror, it's a little hard to make anything out, but sure as hell, there she is, the spitting image of one baby-faced pop star. Sure, Maka's hair is a little thinner, a little duller, and sure, she's certainly slighter in certain areas (read: boobs), but it's a nice fit. Soul certainly has an eye for aesthetics, _all things considered._

But it feels a bit like selling out. Or, at least, it feels _weird_. Indescribably weird. Like she's gathering all of her renowned bravery and putting her heart on the line, just for a boy. One measly, pouty boy, who, by all means, probably shouldn't even care which Spice Girl she is. Grunge-loving pothead doesn't even like _pop_ music.

Maka touches her pink-painted cheek and sighs. Well, there's no going back now. Patty's crop top won't fit her. Her dress won't fit any of the other girls except for maybe Eruka. What's done is done, and Mama didn't raise no quitter, that's for sure. All there's left to do is grit her teeth and fake her way through whatever twisted challenge Liz Thompson has issued her.

Not… that Soul is a prize to be won. He's a person. A quiet, prickly boy, with music in his bones and a smile that makes her head fuzzy white noise. A boy she certainly would _like_ to impress, absolutely.

But more than that, he's a boy she cares about. A boy who should have a damn choice in _something_ in his life. To pressure him would put her on the same level as his parents - his _father_ , mostly - and that's a price she just won't pay. Even thinking about it makes her feel a little sick, because what kind of person would ever try to box their own son in unrealistic expectations and standards?

She promises herself she won't be disappointed. She promises herself that she won't hold a grudge, should Soul merely quirk a teasing little smirk, mess up her hair, and call her a nerd. And hey, maybe she'd even misunderstood Liz!

"... Maka? Hellooooo, Earth to space cadet? Phone home!"

She blinks back the nerves and stares at Patty. "Sorry! What did you say?"

The girl giggles, plopping down beside her on the bed. Her mattress squeaks beneath the added weight, and before long Patty has located Maka's corner of stuffed animals and hugs a stuffed Luna plushie to her chest. "Your eyes got real big."

"... They did?"

Patty nods sagely. "Like Lizzie's do when she's 'bout to go on stage. Are you secretly a singer too?"

Just the thought of her in front of a microphone is laughable. Somewhere, she's sure Soul is probably cringing. "N… No?"

"Oh."

Had her eyes been wide? She didn't notice, hm. Well, maybe this is the punishment she deserves for getting so easily lost in thought. Hasn't Soul always teased her for over thinking just about everything? Darn him for knowing her so well. For always being _right._

Being fully unable to get a grip is frustrating, and Maka fiddles with the hem of her skirt while asking, "Can I ask you something?"

Patty pauses, halfway through blowing a candy-pink bubble of gum. Her subsequent nod is slow, and then Patty's popping her own bubble and licking the shreds from her lips, chewing all over again. There's something about her that is weirdly soothing, something that melts the looming cloud of change and _responsibility_ over her, and for a moment, Maka is still just seventeen, and she is allowed to linger on such adolescent worries. Worrying about a boy with pretty eyes isn't _silly,_ as Mama might say. Not when said pretty-eyed boy has a smile that melts her to the bone and a hand to hold.

It would be nice to not be so alone. And she can't stop thinking about Mama, sitting up late. Can't stop thinking about herself, standing there at graduation, multiple cords and sashes decorating her, watching Liz hook an arm around Soul and pull him in for a kiss.

The thought hardens her. Brave Maka stares down her fears and wears them to further her courage and resolve. "What's going on between Soul and Liz?"

At that, Patty blinks. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"They're… _together_ ," Maka says vaguely, the hem of her dress between her fingers. "Aren't they?"

The younger Thompson sister shrugs, gnaws on her gum. "I caught sissy with her tongue down Soul's throat once, I guess. But that was a long time ago."

"... How long?"

She stares thoughtfully out Maka's open window. The fall chill raises goosebumps up and down her bare arms, but without it, they'd be a bunch of sweating pigs, crammed in Maka's tiny bedroom with an absurd amount of body heat between them. "Are you jealous?"

Absolutely. Positively. "That's not the point!"

Patty's resulting grin makes Maka blush like a fool. "Lizzie doesn't like him like him, if that's what you're worried about. Don't think so, anyway. Chill out, chica."

"But-!"

Her giggles are overwhelming, and Maka mashes her hands into her lap, suddenly feeling both silly and overwhelmed all at once. Crushing - and having such blatant, teasing girl talk - is something she's managed to avoid for so long, through both blatant disinterest and a busy school schedule. But now, with Soul's unwavering companionship and the creeping feelings of _forever_ overtaking her every time he pops in a new mixtape and pulls out for another late-night drive, suddenly she's jelly-kneed and stupid.

Patty bounces on her knees and shoves the Luna plushie back behind Maka's pillow. "She likes someone eeeeeelse~" she singsongs, playfully tugging on Maka's pigtails. "Saw her starin' and I just knew, sister's intuition 'nd stuff-"

"That's!" Maka squeaks, swatting her grabby hands away and cradling her hair in her own hands protectively. There's a screaming, buzzing heat glowing all the way to her ears and _everyone is watching_. " _Not the point-_ are they together or _**not?!**_ "

Eruka snorts. "Not."

"They're not?" Tsubaki asks, surprisingly brightly. "How can you tell?"

Scary Spice brushes her long hair over her shoulder and evens Posh with a bored stare. "He looks constipated all the time around her. They're definitely not hooking up. I mean, unless he's just a scrub. Which, I mean, is an option, I guess?"

"Nope!" Patty pipes up, plopping back onto her butt and giggling. "They're bandmates! 'Nd yeah, I saw them kissin' once, but then Soul made me promise not ta tell anyone 'cause it wasn't a real thing, I guess. He just wanted to see what it was like or somethin', and Lizzie said she'd help 'em out."

Maka doesn't dare get her hopes up. Words are easy, meaningless without the action to back them up. Still, she can't help the giddy, excited bubbling in her chest, and all at once she feels fourteen, feels like the way Kim had once giggled when Ox kissed her during a hushed game of spin-the-bottle. There's an antsy, nervous bubbling in her throat and, woefully ill-prepared to deal with such twitter-patted desire, she swallows it back thickly and grits her teeth.

Maka kicks her legs off of her bed and stands, knees steel. She will not wobble. She will not crumble into herself like a ditsy, giddy schoolgirl. There are such conflicting, warring urges within her; because half of her - a vocal half - _wants_ Soul with impressive determination, wants to slip her hand in his and kiss his stupid dopey face and maybe give his old man a knuckle sandwich - and yet there is still the nervous, hesitant half, the girl who remembers her mother sitting up late, just a few nights before, alone.

Her parents had been high school sweethearts, too. Papa had lived just next door.

They say the apple never falls far from the tree. Just this once, Maka hopes they're wrong. Her ticking desk clock feels like a metronome, and as the clock strikes eight PM, resolve settles into her bones. This it is, Maka thinks. Something in the air tonight - it's happening tonight, this imminent change she's been both dreading and anticipating for weeks - and she'll be damned if she takes it laying down.

No. Baby-Spice-with-the-rock-hard-abs stares down her girl squad and holds her head tall. "I'll believe it when I hear it from him."

Their resulting grins reek of Girl Power (™).

Now, if only their Ginger would stop hogging the mirror so that they could hit the road, already. They're thirty minutes behind schedule and Posh looks _Panicky,_ frantic hands waving and fretting and all. It's out of character but cute, anyway, and Maka falls into line behind her, gently tugging the _Lip Smackers_ from Kim's hand before her lips actually become _Strawberry Garnet Glaze_.


	5. only wanna be with you

**1998**

.

Getting clotheslined by blue-haired Hulk Hogan is not how Maka had envisioned her dramatic entrance.

It's like something out of a bad movie. She's minding her own business, strutting in with her girlicious _clique,_ when out of nowhere, _he_ zooms in _,_ a mass blur of neon yellow tights and blue construction pape, taped onto his upper lip in the crude shape of a mustache. There is too much rippling muscle to be contained in such tight, brightly dyed skivvies, and much like a train wreck, she can't look away, mesmerized by biceps and _bulge_ and overgrown pits, ugh.

He hits like a freight train, too. He might be a stout thing, barely pushing 5'4'', but Blake Barrett is built like a _tank_. Baby Spice just about has the wind knocked out of her as her childhood best friend-come-brother figure rams into her like a linebacker, all broad shoulder, and Maka shrieks as she tumbles back into the grass, legs flipping into the air.

It's not at all how she had envisioned her entrance. Finding Blake laying between her legs, grinning at her boyishly from his perch over her is certainly not what girlish teenage dreams are made of. Maybe nightmares - he hits so damn _hard,_ and Maka might be tougher than your average Joe Schmoe, but that particular move is going to bruise. And, ugh, talk about grass stains!

"Blake-!"

" _Black*Star,_ " he yowls, grinning as he pins her shoulders back into the lawn. "Use my star name when I'm in costume, girl!"

He's ridiculous. He's going to be the death of her. Maka grunts and fits him with a glare as Tsubaki frets beside her. "Black*Star," Maka growls instead, with Blake's resulting nod of approval prompting further conversation, "do you mind?! Do you have any idea how long it took Tsu to sew this costume?"

He blinks. Stares down at her, spread legs doing nothing to shield bare thigh from the wandering eye. "Not really much here," he says, quite seriously. "I could'a wrapped a sock 'round you for the same effect-"

Maka shrieks, frees a hand from his grasp and slugs him in the shoulder. "Take that back! She worked so hard, you _idiot_ -"

"-Yeah, yeah, Tsu's a goddess, we all know." Blake waves off such obvious praise and shoots Posh Spice an apologetic smile. When she laughs it off and shrugs, Hulk Hogan with the absurd fake mustache turns his attentions back to the girl pinned in the grass, brows waggling. "You're getting rusty, Albarn. Didn't even bother trying to dodge this time."

"I wasn't exactly expecting to get piledrived!" Maka huffs. "You play dirty! You know I'm not used to wearing heels-"

"Excuses are for big baby losers like yourself," he announces and then sits back, releasing her hands. Something about his _monster dong_ (his words, not hers) concealed shrewdly in bright-yellow spandex and her spread legs sets her off, and Maka, in an impressive show of flexibility, wedges her leg out from his cage of limbs and pulls her knee back to nearly her shoulder. "Ah-!"

And while he is distracted by such simple things as _girl legs_ and _bare skin,_ Maka presses her heel to his chest and kicks him back. He yelps as he tumbles back, ass-first into the gravel of the walkway, and Patty doesn't bother muting her laughter as Maka accepts Eruka's offered hand and jumps back to her feet.

Blake goggles at her. Primly, Maka combs her fingers through her pigtail, muttering, "Seems like someone's still got a few weaknesses to sort out," all the while grinning victoriously. He blubbers for a moment, grappling for his ego, and Maka goes in for the kill. "Maybe you should try stretching some more."

He scowls. "Not fair! You don't have junk in the way!"

Kim rolls her eyes and proceeds to dust stray grass off of Maka's bum. "Pfft," she scoffs, as Maka jumps, unprepared for hands on her ass without preamble. "You're not that big, Starboy."

"My godliness is MASSIVE."

Only Blake would want to be known for a _Monster Dong_. Realistically, Maka doesn't understand the obsession with penis size; the average vagina isn't that deep, and what're the benefits of having a larger cock vs a smaller one if most of it goes to waste anyway? Is there something she's missing? Because sure, she's a virgin, and she doesn't typically seek out porn, but Blake has no qualms about walking around without pants, and she's seen the vintage porn magazines hidden crudely beneath Soul's mattress, so she's seen a penis or two in her time. She's inexperienced, not _stupid_.

Maka likes to think she's a pretty smart girl. A good head on her shoulders. A head that can't quite wrap itself around why stupid boys and their pride are so caught up in things like _how large their penis is._

Liz is right; masculinity is so _fragile_. Like there are any real benefits to having more length than necessary. Teenage boys are so immature and Maka's _so over it_.

So she scrunches up her face. Really thinks on it. Wonders, for about half of a second, if she can ever remember Soul bragging about his size. Maybe once, when he was fourteen, but that had been a phase of his, where every annoying stereotypically boy thing seemed to be fair game. Comments about her underdeveloped figure come to mind, too, but he'd dropped that well into Sophomore year of high school after she'd finally snapped and started crying over it. Come to think of it, he stopped doing a lot of things other boys his age continued with right about then. Stopped pulling her hair so much, too, and kept his bullying to things he knew weren't sore spots.

Soul doesn't brag about his penis. But then, Soul doesn't really brag about much of anything these days. He just stays kind of quiet, lurks in the back of groups, stuffs his hands into his pockets when he's not stoned. And even when he's stoned he's still checked out of conversation - but at least then his expression is a little looser, a little less serious, less tense.

 _Blake,_ though. Blake's a whole nother story. He pelvic thrusts at Tsubaki and she shakes her head and clicks her tongue at such antics.

"They call it the _Devastator f_ or a reason," Blake says, motioning crudely to his groin. "Boo yeah!"

Maka thinks she could go on life happily without having her private parts ever _devastated_ , thanks. She smoothes down the her skirt from riding up her thighs and shakes her head, sighing. "I feel bad for whoever _they_ are."

His brows keep doing that stupid wiggling thing. It's like they're gonna fly right off of his face. " _They_ had a good time. _Little Star_ always delivers the finishing blow, pigtails."

"That sounds more like a wrestling move than a sex thing," she says quietly. Kim snorts at that. "It definitely doesn't sound like a pleasant sex thing, anyway. I don't want to be blown."

"That's cuz you don't have a cock," Blake says, cackling. He worms his way into their numbers and slings a sweaty arm around her shoulder, furthermore upsetting the girl power gods by infiltrating such sacred alignment with his gross boy smell. "Lemme tell you, young grasshopper - _getting blown_ is a good time. I know a widdle baby virgin like you wouldn't understand, but-"

She pinches his forearm. He flinches. "That has nothing to do with it! I still know how things work!"

"Aw," he condescends.

"I know a _heck_ of a lot more about the female orgasm than you do." Because all she can imagine is Blake, inserting body part a into body part b, thrusting until his own completion and assuming that's it, that's the ballgame, he's done and can go to sleep now. It's distressing. Discouraging. Makes her pity whoever it is he's been sleeping with, apparently. It definitely has her wondering why they've been lying to him about having their world rocked. "If it's too big, it won't fit."

Commence waggling again. He just _won't stop._ Maka sort of wants to pluck each irritating blue hair from his face and see how he likes having such caterpillars removed from his face. At least that way it'll be harder for him to broadcast such blatant perversion. "Giggity."

"No!" she stresses, jabbing her elbow into his side. "Not giggity! It's- ugh, never mind. You're impossible."

" _Heh."_

That wasn't even remotely sexual! At least… she hadn't _thought_ it was an innuendo. Blake probably makes half of his crude humor up in his gross, depraved little brain anyway. The boy could take just about anything and turn it into a dick joke, _ew._

The whole interaction is a waste of time. Maka has bigger fish to fry and bigger boys to psychoanalyze anyway; Blake's tactless pelvic thrusting can wait. Or, er, she can have faith in the general population to not let any boy who deems himself _Black*Star,_ wrestling _God,_ to penetrate them. Besides, it's not like he's particularly attractive with a construction paper mustache taped to his upper lip, even if the spandex hugs his muscles in debatably flattering ways.

Whatever. It's not her business, anyway. Certainly not her responsibility. "Where's Soul?"

Blake doesn't even bother hiding his humor. Wears it right on his face, big, dumb smile and all. "What, he's not here humping your leg like usual?"

That's an innuendo she understands. "Blake!"

"Not my name, pigtails."

With a spectacular sigh, she says, " _Black*Star,"_ and his expression relents, nodding in approval, beefy forearms crossing over his nearly-bare chest. "Where is Soul? I need to talk to him."

"Inside somewhere. Last I saw him he was waiting for the bathroom. Asshole probably drank too much too fast and now he needs to piss it out."

Fat chance. Soul and parties go together like water and gasoline. At least she knows he's still here somewhere - Soul's sneaky when he's uncomfortable or out of his element, but he'd still certainly let his best bro know before ditching. Bros before… whatever, anyway. The bro code is still a mystery to her.

"Tell 'em to put a sock on it!"

Her face burns as she shoves him off of her and marches her way around Aunt Nygus's roses. She might as well dig herself a hole and become one with the flowers, because she's certainly red enough to blend in. "Not going to happen!"

"Safe sex! Safe dookie!"

He's an idiot. She's more than a little satisfied when she hears someone - presumably Kim - slap him upside the head and his resulting grunt.

.

The promised pizza has already been ravaged.

Maka's only a little bit disappointed. After all, how could she expect anything else? Aside from lewd comments and crude jokes, Blake Barrett is nothing more than a walking, beefy mass of stomach. And pizza is just one of those drunk foods that he will go ham on - and judging by the bottles of alcohol lining the coffee table and the white-and-blue waxy cups scattered on every available flat surface, drinking is a thing that is happening in spades.

It sort of explains Kilik Rung dancing on the table with a lampshade on his head. Sort of. It's still weird, and Maka tries hard not to bring attention to herself, should she be summoned to join in the festivities. Not that dancing is a bad idea, really - Kilik is a nice guy, a good big brother, and Maka babysits his kid siblings every other weekend, but she is still a girl on a mission. He lacks a certain deep-set scowl and lazy grace she seeks.

Besides, dancing on a table without the rest of her girls would probably be out of character. She's in costume, after all. And Maka Albarn doesn't half ass anything. It's pure Girl Power that keeps her moving her way down the crowded hall, past couples grinding on each other and the groups of girls lining up by the bathroom door.

One of said girls is Liz, lounging lazily against the wall, cigarette perched between her fingers. The smoke curls through the air just as apathetically, a loose, limp spiral that fades into the dimmed light of the hall as she takes another drag.

Maka's blood runs hot. Liz gives an amused tilt of her head as she flicks her cig. " _Legs."_

She has two, and they're both kind of doing this wobbly-nervous jelly-kneed thing that pisses her off. She's never been a particularly skittish girl, not even close - Maka's more famous for her stubborn tenacity than fluttering, nervous heartbeat - but there's just something about the way Liz gives her an obvious once over that has her on edge. Like there's a butterfly, fluttering rapidly in her chest, struggling to break free, ready to spread its wings and truly fly. Like the change on the horizon is finally about to take way.

And Liz knows something. Something Maka definitely does not. Those blue eyes are much too sharp to be ever mistaken as clueless.

"Yeah," Maka says, staring nearly unblinkingly. Bravery is the courage to fight through fear, and that's something she definitely has in spades. "I did what you said. Where is he?"

Her dark lips quick into a smile. The burgundy leaves a stain along the white rim of the cigarette, but Liz pays no attention to such an inane detail. No, she's got her sights set on Maka. Tonight, Maka is caught in Liz Thompson's resourceful web.

At least she's in good hands. But first things first, there are still things Maka needs set straight. Things like Soul's lips and whether or not Liz has sampled such fabled, off-limits nirvana.

"I think he crashed in Blake's old man's room," Liz replies finally, reaching over to smudge out the butt in her makeshift ashtray. "The party finally got to him. Too much stimulation, probably. Lots of people screaming and drinking. Never really been his scene, you know?"

"That sounds like Soul," Maka sighs. When Liz makes no effort to say more, she takes matters into her own hands. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"It's… kind of personal," Maka admits, as an afterthought; _Liz's tongue down Soul's throat_ comes to mind, and she really wishes Patty hadn't painted that particular mental image quite so clearly. Though really, when it comes down to it, all Patty really had to do was mention Soul and Liz in the same sentence and Maka's overactive, insecure little imagination could have filled in the rest. Giving any of her doubts fodder on which to feed is usually a one-way path to a lengthy AIM mood message.

Still, though, Liz remains undeterred. Maka sort of envies it, for a moment. What is it like to be able to keep your shit relatively together - and without a blatant tell, at that? Maybe Maka's just doomed to constantly wear her heart on her sleeve. Perhaps it is the role she's meant to play.

"Shoot," Liz repeats.

"... Right here? Around everyone?"

Shrugging, Liz says, "How personal can it be? I told you Soul's turn ons in the middle of a department store, Maka. Fair's fair."

Her face may never retain its normal temperature again. Christ, and here she is, bare legs on blatant display, donning knee-high, sleek boots and all. It's as embarrassing as it is exciting, and Maka elects to ignore the way her blood pulses and runs hot, the way it probably makes her face glow pink. _Soul's turn ons,_ that's just - can short skirts be considered a turn on, or is that just basic boy language? Isn't it sort of a common thing?

Whatever. Might as well spit it out, since Liz seems quite keen on staying right where she is, leaning back against that very wall as if it is her god-given duty.

Maka swallows thickly. _Now or never,_ she supposes. Here goes nothing. "Are you dating him?"

To her surprise, Liz actually _snorts_ , quirking an amused brow at the very question that has haunted Maka for months. "Is that what you think is going on?"

"... You're always with him," she says bluntly, while shifting her weight. Having such a conversation in a busy, crowded hallway is difficult, and Harvar definitely just accidentally brushed his knuckles against her ass on his way past. "-! And you're- you're in his room, all of the time, and you're so chummy with him-"

" _Chummy_ ," Liz repeats, then laughs a little. "You're the one that's, like, _real_ chummy with him. Every other word out of his mouth is 'Maka this' or 'Maka that'."

"I'm his _friend._ "

Liz's stare is razor sharp. "Babe, he wants to be a little more than _friends_ with you."

Impossible. She is Maka, neighbor and listener of terrible pop music. Maka, who helps him with his homework and plucks cigarettes from his lips and tries to boss him around because she knows best - certainly not _girlfriend material,_ no matter how desperately she wants to be otherwise. She can't ever remember Soul looking at her like she was anything but _just Maka_ in overalls, silly Maka hugging her pillow to her chest as she watches Sailor Moon reruns, tying her hair up in twintails and lining her arms with jelly bracelets.

She is not sexy. She doesn't even look mature. He has told her such, albeit while they were both thirteen and brats. Still, the sentiment remains, and _boy,_ does it haunt her.

So she scrunches up her face and then melts into a pout. "Does not."

" _Girl,"_ Liz sighs.

"He doesn't! He- I know you've kissed him, Liz."

She at least has the grace to look guilty about that. "... I mean-"

" _Liz."_

"I've hit that, fine, okay?" Liz holds up her hands in surrender. "But we were both a little stoned and everything gets weird and philosophical for him when he's been smoking. He said he didn't really think he was attracted to women much, but he'd never really, you know, been able to test his theories, and I was there and not about to tell him to go bang some random chick, so I offered. It was purely for science."

"You had sex with Soul _**for science?!**_ "

Liz winces and presses a finger to her lips. Whoops, Maka hadn't know her voice could go that high. Definitely hadn't intended to squeak it out, either. "And he's not bad to look at, you know? He's sort of easy on the eyes."

For Maka, easy on the eyes isn't even the half of it. Whatever. There are still things worth discussing here, important things, like Soul's attraction towards women. "N-Never mind that- is he, you know… into girls?'

At that, Liz shrugs again, melts back against the wall. Beside her, Jackie sips her drink, wearily eyeing the two of them. "I didn't do it for him, supposedly," Liz admits, "but he's not into dudes, either, if that's what you're thinking. He's real tight, you know? Picky, or… something. Said something about only certain people could get his engines really running."

Certain people. Christ, she's running hot. "A-and-"

"Or _person,_ " Liz says, grinning again, before stealing Jackie's cup and taking a long, dramatic sip. She points at Maka, one finger curling from the plastic rim of the cup. "Like you."

" _Me?"_

" _Duh!_ He never takes his eyes off you. Follows you around the room like a hawk. He brightens up whenever you walk in," she says, and Maka can practically hear her own heartbeat, slamming in her ears. Doesn't she feel _silly_ now. Suddenly, it's a lot less mortifying to be standing before Liz in such a costume. _Suddenly,_ Liz's jabbing, crude suggestions feel a lot more like a set up.

Fool. Maka Albarn is such a fool.

"It's _cute,_ " Liz says, finally, nodding. "And gross. Mostly gross. But like you said, we're close, and after everything, I think he deserves to be happy. Bad sex really puts a damper on things. Dude was really discouraged for a while. Said something about feeling broken, and then you happened."

She can relate. Boys had been so gross and disappointing for so long, but somehow Soul had grown on her, and now all she can think about his holding his stupid hand and kissing his face and other discouraging things that Maka had thought she was immune to. But _noooooo,_ stupid Soul and his stupid soft hands and _stupid warm smiles that make her want to melt._

There's just one more thing, though, that's keeping her from marching down that hall, shoving stupid drunk boys aside and planting one right on Soul's dopey lips. And that thing is staring right at her, eyeliner impeccable and dark.

"Do you like him, though?"

Liz chokes on her drink. Spits it back out, not so daintily, back into her cup. "What?"

"Did you like it? You know… sleeping with him."

There's a peculiar quirk in her smile. It's almost illegible. "Soul didn't really do it for _me_ either."

 _Sissy likes someone else,_ Patty had said. Maka blinks twice before the steel returns to her bones and she stands tall, strong and sure. When Liz tilts her head and gives her a look, Maka turns, shoves a thumb over her shoulder, pointing vaguely in the direction of the rest of the Spice Girls. "Posh is that way."

The resulting sputter is validating.

.

Predictably, she _does_ find him holed up in Sid and Nygus' bedroom, flopped down, tummy-first on the floor like a toddler.

What _is_ a little more surprising is the itty bitty weiner dog, dressed up in a hot dog bun costume, sitting curled up on his back and napping quietly. It's adorable, and certainly like she's walked into a separate dimension, one quieter and more contained. Like a closed-off space, one just for anxious, introverted Soul and this mysterious puppy to exist without worry.

It's adorable. Heartwarming. And Maka sort of wants to cradle the both of them to her chest and join in their sleepy, lazy shenanigans.

She shuts the door quietly behind her and mutes the sound of screaming and loud music. Soul cracks, barely, peeking up at her from over the edge of his Gameboy. He blinks slowly, as if learning her silhouette in the muted light, and Maka only manages a half-wave before he's giving her that handsome half-smile, dimple and all.

Stupid pretty boy. How dare he melt her heart so quickly.

"Hey," she whispers, padding her way over.

Soul's eyes follow the length of her legs. She feels naked before him, even though she's definitely got on a pink mini dress and knee high boots. It's just a lot of thigh on display, and from what she's been told from Liz, apparently bare thighs are the way to go when it comes to Soul.

So maybe she is a little naked. Both emotionally and physically. Maka always did wear her heart on her sleeve, after all. When Soul finally tears his eyes away from her bare legs and hits her face, his brows crinkle.

"Hey," he whispers back, careful to not move too suddenly and wake the puppy on his back. "You 'aight?"

She lowers herself daintily, sitting carefully while wearing such a short dress. She lets her hands rest in her lap, mostly to hold down the fabric blocking his dulled vision from her unmentionables. Not that she thinks he would stare, should he get a sneak peak. She's changed in his bedroom hundreds of times, to various stages of undress, and he's never once peeked from between the cracks of his fingers.

It's more for her own state of mind. And it's somewhere to put her hands that isn't right on his face, that isn't her, crawling her way over to tuck herself beneath his arm and fall into his easy-going lull. Cuddling should never be quite so seductive.

Maka shrugs, tugging at the hem of her skirt. "I'm fine," she answers, mostly honest. "Are you doing alright in here?"

He doesn't buy it for a second, though, and keeps his eyes on her, burning warm as he plops his Gameboy facedown onto the carpet. He squirms, just a little, enough to pillow his arms over each other and form a suitable chin-rest for himself, so that he may continue watching her without straining his neck. Pup on his back doesn't even fuss a little; _well,_ Maka thinks, eyes drifting over his shoulder like the little traitors they are, his back (and shoulders, hmm) is certainly broad enough to make a suitable resting place. What a cute bed for a baby weiner dog.

Where did he even find a weiner dog? Who brought their puppy to Blake Barrett's house party and then left it unattended long enough for Soul to corral it into his antisocial naptime?

So many questions, so little time. Soul nods, then licks his lips. "It's noisy out there. Not my scene."

"Then why'd you come? It's not like you bothered with a costume-"

"Hey," he huffs, pouting. "I'm Kurt Cobain. Duh."

If Soul thinks putting on a grubby flannel shirt and 'forgetting' to brush his hair means putting on a costume, he's mistaken. It doesn't work that way when it's his everyday apparel. He looks exactly the same as he does any other day, except maybe with a bit more eyeliner. Compliments of Liz, she suspects. Soul has a steady hand, what with all the piano playing he's had forced upon him, but there's a certain raccoon-like appeal to his eye makeup that has her suspecting this is his best gal pal's handiwork.

She can't stifle the giggles. Soul pouts further. "What?"

"You wear that like… every day! That's _so_ not a costume," she says, grinning.

His nose does the cutest little scrunching thing. "I parted my hair differently."

"Okay."

"He dresses like this."

"That's not the point, Soul," she says, shaking her head. He's really something. Why do people think she's the stubborn one again? "You also dress like this. Like, _all the time,_ dummy."

He quirks a pale brow at her. Scrunches up his nose again defensively. "So? You dress like that all the time, too."

"That's so not the point!" she squeaks. She does not! Not exactly, anyway. Maka favors boots, sure, but more of the asskicking variety. Not the knee-high, sexy leg-hugging flavor. And yeah, she wears skirts from time to time, and yeah, wearing a bra is kind of stupid when she doesn't really need any extra support, but this is actually an iconic costume, dammit!

Soul Evans is full of shit. And she hates his stupid shit-eating grin just as much as she wants to kiss it off his face.

"Shhhhh," he shushes, "Baby's sleeping."

"Baby is right here and she's not sleeping," Maka says, affronted. "Hello? Baby Spice?"

"Not you," he grunts, though even in the dark, she can still make out his rosy cheeks. "Dog. On my back. Let 'er rest, guess she doesn't like crowds much either and found me about an hour ago. We're companions, now."

It's probably a sign, Maka thinks, that so many small animals flock to him. Blair, mystery weenie - he is a _friend,_ despite his growling, shaggy appearance, and even puppies and kitties can tell. It sort of warms her heart. Definitely reinforces her assumption that Soul is not all hard edges and angst, not really - underneath that devil-may-care bravado and collection of flannel and boots, he's a softie, a lover, he who pets animals gently and smiles at her late at night and plays with her hair.

 _His_ hair looks so soft. Like a murky little cloud, plopped right atop of his head. He could certainly use a haircut, she thinks, but it might draw away from the image he's going for. Besides, with a clean cut, how could Soul ever hide behind his hair when the situation becomes too much for him? With short hair, how could Maka run her fingers through it? How could he ever nap on her lap again, without routine, _their routine?_

It's just who they are and what they do. And to think, all this time, he's been keeping such a magical little secret from her. Clueless, apparently, to the secret she's been keeping. To say she feels foolish is an understatement; she's been pining after this boy for as long as she can remember and he's been doing the same and somehow - _somehow,_ they hadn't been able to figure it out.

Until now. Until _Liz,_ who has done things with Soul and has come out unbothered. Like it was nothing to her. The thought still makes her burn, makes Maka simmer and squirm and hold her hands tighter in her lap in silent envy and rage. Kissing him would never be a mistake. Being intimate with Soul - someone who is so inherently private, and insecure, and thoughtful - could never be a test for her. Never an experiment.

No, Maka would mean it. Sure as shit, serious as a heart attack. He might be the only boy she'd ever consider letting see her so vulnerable. Soul, who pets animals gently and complains and slept with Liz - long legged, blonde haired _knockout_ \- without feeling anything.

She could cry. Stupid Soul. He could have just told her himself. Heck, he could've just _asked her_ instead.

"You slept with Liz."

Perhaps it was not the best time to drop that bomb. Oops. Tactless Maka. Well, too late now. It's out in the open, nothing she can do about it. He knows she knows.

Soul burns brighter and his shoulders go taut. "What," he grunts, and his voice actually cracks. The puppy on his back squirms, whining cutely, and Soul doesn't take his eyes off of Maka for a second. His fingers begin tapping, and he's beginning to reach up and scrub at his pale head of hair as he blurts, "What did you-"

"She told me," she cuts in, leaning over on her hands to gently grasp his wrist. "When?"

"That's- we didn't- I was-"

"You're _always_ high, Soul. I know."

He's not right now, though. The clarity in his eyes is astounding, dark wine tension brewing, coiling and coiling as he bites his lip. To be the one causing that tense little furrow in his brow breaks her heart, but - but this has to be done, like ripping off a bandaid. For the greater good. For her future.

 _Their_ future.

Burn, burn, burn. It's all she can do around him. His pulse beneath her fingers is pulsing, a hummingbird's heartbeat, rapidly fluttering. He's _so nervous._

He blinks rapidly. Stares at her. "It wasn't anything. Maka, it didn't- I was just… we were just… 'm not into her like that."

Clearly, her lack of a reaction is telling. When she doesn't automatically resort to scolding him, or squinting at him in disbelief, Soul clues in pretty easily. He begins sitting back, and when Maka hears the pitter-patter of puppy feet on the floor, Soul's already verticle and looming tall, slouched shoulders and all.

"... You knew that."

Maka nods. Squeezes his wrist in her hand.

" _How?"_

Honesty is the best policy. And besides, Maka is tired of hiding behind half-truths, dancing around the fear of change, their upcoming graduation and introduction to adulthood. Just for tonight, she wants to be a bit reckless. Wants to _live a little,_ as Blake would say. More than anything else, though, she wants to free herself of the weight, sitting heavy on her chest. What will taking her crush to college with her do? What will pretending to not love him do for her in what little time they have left?

So she swallows thickly and puts on her brave face. Rubs her thumb along the delicate skin of Soul's inner wrist and says, "Liz told me."

He swallows, too. With his pulse fluttering beneath her, he's helpless. Caught in her web. Such power should never fall into her hands; she's a bossy know-it-all, as he would say, and a studious, workaholic bookworm at that. She just has to know the truth. Has to know he knows her truth, too.

"She did, did she," he mumbles. When her grasp loosens, he wiggles his hand down and laces his fingers between hers. Christ, never mind - now she's caught, too. "What else did that big mouth tell you?"

"Everything," she says, because it's the truth, she thinks. _Enough,_ anyway. Enough to know they've both been acting like lovesick, thickheaded fools for months and apparently everyone can see it.

" _Everything_ ," Soul repeats dryly.

His palm is a little clammy. No matter. She'd love him, no matter the shape, no matter the size or texture. "She told me you like short skirts."

To be on the other side of such realization is a little funny. Maka wonders if this is what she had looked like, only half an hour prior - that dawn in his eyes, blunt, open expression. And then he burns again, hot, just like her, and scarlet has never looked quite so kissable before. "Is that why you're not Sporty Spice?"

He's certainly not the only one with rosy cheeks. She feels fourteen - or like what fourteen was supposed to feel like, anyway. Blushing cheeks and nervous butterflies in her tummy and a boy's hand, warm in her own. Nothing has ever felt quite so sweet and terrifying, all at once.

"I was advised to take your hints to heart."

"They weren't-" he sputters for a moment, reaching his free hand back to rub his neck nervously. "I didn't mean it like that, just-"

"Does it look okay?"

 _Do you like it?_ she wants to say, but the words won't come out. It's silly, feeling tongue tied around him, when she knows they're both racing towards the same damn goal. The feeling is mutual, and Soul's blown-open expression is twice the confirmation Liz's not-so-subtle hints had been. Even more than that, his fingers tighten around hers, tugs her over to rest their clasped hands on his knee. He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand and her heart leaps into her throat, effectively rendering her tongue useless.

_I want you to like it. I want you to like_ _**me.** _

He offers her a crooked grin. "You look like yourself, Maka."

"It's- _\- you_ said I should dress like Baby Spice, so I _did!_ " she says, huffing, with puffed cheeks and her tongue vitalized. He's so full of it sometimes! "If you were just making fun of me, Soul, I swear to God-"

" _Maka,"_ he snorts, then irons out his expression at her resulting squeeze of his hand. It's a warning, for sure, and he must know better than to play with fire, lest he get burned. "Didn't say I didn't like it," he adds quietly, once she's settled down and her hand lies docile in his again. "You're… cute."

 _Cute._ His stare says more. He hasn't been able to look away from her since she walked in, hasn't been able to stop stealing glances at her naked knees, the way her bare thighs press together as she sits. For the first time in her life, Maka feels _attractive_ \- like actually, for real pleasing, in ways she hadn't thought she could. And weirdly, she's okay with baring this much skin, okay with being ogled a little if just because it's Soul, and he's the only guy she's ever wanted to impress, anyway. He's the only boy she ever wants to stare at the freckles ghosting across her hemline. Anyone else would be uncomfortable - anyone else would earn themselves a swift punch to the nose for ever daring to look at her in such a way.

It's empowering, almost. Makes her feel like she's years older than just merely seventeen, like she's not a teen teetering on the brink of such a transition. It puts the power back into her hands. _She_ can make Soul feel this way. _She_ can make his brows loose and his tongue dry and not anyone else. Not any boy, not any other girl - not _Liz._

It's what finally drives her to make the first move. God knows Soul will never rock the boat. He is always careful, despite his appearances and bravado, always meticulous and considerate and afraid, especially, of cause and effect. But for now, Maka is not. For the next few months, Maka is _not._ She is in charge of her own future.

She only drops his hands to grab his stupid baggy flannel and pull him to her. He might be a cool guy, but his lips are warmer than anything else, and molding her palms to his jaw and cradling his face in her hands is all she can do to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest. For a moment, he's tense, squawking not-so-cooly as her nose bumps his - but then his hands are shyly, tentatively sliding to hold her waist and there's nowhere else in the world Maka would rather be. His Gameboy keeps looping through the same 8bit tune, and it's not exactly the most romantic background noise for her first kiss, but it's sure better than whatever it is Blake has blasting down the hall, or the legion of teenagers screaming " _chug, chug, chug!"_ , so Maka focuses on it.

Well, that and Soul's lips, which are soft and tender and hiding such an exciting little secret. He cracks open so delightfully, and then Maka's running her tongue over each sharp peak of his teeth, and about three months worth of dreams have finally been realized.

The only thing more exciting is his tongue. Which, ah, she hadn't been expecting; pre-teen Maka had always thought tongue kissing would be wet and weird and gross. And it is wet, and certainly weird, and with anyone else it would probably be gross - but this is Soul, and his fingers dig so possessively into her waist as he finally finds his nerve and slants his mouth over hers, and she could never find him gross. It's good, in the strangest way. A rolling, burning heat, that starts low in her tummy and sinks impossibly far, and suddenly even this mini dress is too much.

It's only a crack of light and alien gasp that tears her away from him. Because yeah, okay, so she's liked Soul for a long time, and has thought about his mouth a little too often for her to admit aloud, but even she can see the strangeness in walking in on Baby Spice and Kurt Cobain swapping spit. And poor Tsubaki is the witness to such sin.

Maka freezes. Soul's face burns warm beneath her hands. Sputtering, she says with a start, "Tsu-!"

"Occupied," Liz says from somewhere, and Maka watches fingers adorned with black, chipped nails link their way through Posh Spice's. "Let 'em be. There are other rooms."

She should be embarrassed. Should also probably think about apologizing to Tsubaki for such an uncomfortable way to discover Maka's newest (and first) boyfriend. Also should perhaps think about inquiring further on why, exactly, she is seeking an empty room with _Liz_ of all people, but all Maka can think about instead is maybe making Liz a thank you bracelet and pushing Soul down to the floor.

Bracelet making can wait, though. Soul doesn't even whine when she takes charge and the back of his shoulders hit the carpet, just takes it with a crooked grin and his hands smoothing up the backs of her bare thighs.

And Maka likes such blatant ease in his eyes. She likes it a lot.


	6. love takes time

**1998**

.

Despite their initial, blood-burning makeout, their relationship builds slowly.

Baby steps. September becomes October, and then November, and the farthest they've gone so far has been said blood-burning makeout.

It's both of their first, after all. Soul has kissed here and there, apparently, and he's certainly not a virgin (simmer, squirm, _pout_ ) but he's still new to the dating thing. He's still new to _romantic_ hand-holding, if just because now he's allowed to press warm kisses to the back of her hand, and he lets her swing those clasped hands as they take walks together. It's like everything has changed and also hasn't, because they had been close while maintaining their just friends status - but now, she notes with glee, Soul will kiss her forehead after nights out ( _dates!_ ) and - _sometimes_ \- shyly mumble that he loves her while they watch movies.

It's a pretty sweet deal. Maka's pretty sure she's never been happier. Soul's only a call away, after all. And even more so than that, he's literally just a house down - she can see his window from hers, and sometimes, when they talk on the phone and hog up the landline, he'll crack his curtains and wave at her, and something giddy in her explodes, thundering through her chest.

After months of pining and feeling irritatingly twitter-patted around him, it's so nice to finally be open. It's nice to not have to worry if he'll take her lovelorn stares the wrong way, or if he'll think she's funny for wanting to scoot extra close during movie night. There is such comfort in being close to him, in feeling his heartbeat so soundly beneath her cheek. No more pretenses, no more second guessing - just companionship, warm hands and extra long drives, with Soul's palm soft on her thigh.

Or Soul, strumming idly on his acoustic guitar, feet in her lap, while she turns a page in her novel. Such ease is comfortable, like tying her shoes or signing her name, and the way he keeps sending her little smiles when she peeks up from her reading is everything.

"What?" she asks finally.

Soul doesn't bristle. He doesn't even look affronted, just shrugs and strums again. "Gonna have to get you a flashlight here pretty soon. Not good for you to read in the dark."

He's such a mother hen. She shuts her book with a satisfying clap and sets it aside. Her slouchy boy picks at the strings of his guitar lazily, looking silly and lanky, stretched out the way he is in their old treehouse. At twelve, it seemed like such a great idea. And for Maka, at 17, and still petite and barely taller than five feet, it is still moderately comfortable. Soul, on the other hand, hit a growth spurt months after turning fifteen, and the rest is door frame head-bashing history.

He barely fits in the treehouse. Still, it doesn't stop him from crawling his way in, doesn't stop him from smooching the very tip of her nose and melting into the space beside her. Certainly hasn't discouraged him from stuffing his feet in her lap and doing his damndest to distract her from her assigned reading.

"It's fine," she sighs, grabbing at his feet. He jumps and squirms, mock-kicking at her. "I can _see._ "

"You wanna go blind early? Let go, you menace," he hisses, squirming, squirming. Soul Evans is so ticklish, and she will never let him live it down, boyfriend or not. If anything, Maka thinks dating him gives her _more_ reason to tickle and harass, if just because the look of his laughing face is preferable to the tense, stressed shell she's been left with more often than not, and his distress sort of makes her feel like a failure of a girlfriend. "Seriously!"

"Drama queen."

He squints at her. "Sounds like somebody doesn't want a lullaby tonight."

A game changer! He's so cruel, threatening to withhold such sweetness. He's got her heart on a damn leash and he knows it, too, judging by the slow, smug smile that curls along his lips. Maka gasps, dropping her hold on his ankles and presses a hand to her chest. "No!"

"Then _behave,_ " he scolds, going as far as to waggle a finger at her, mock-sternly. "And leave the feet alone, weirdo. Gonna start thinkin' you have a _thing_ about feet."

The only _thing_ Maka might have is for Soul Evans' mouth. Pink, she huffs, instead folding her arms over her chest. "Do _not!_ "

His grinning face is handsome. And annoying. And, heck, they've been touchy-feely lately, and he clearly has no problem planting his big feet into her lap, so why should she have a problem crawling into his? If he wants to wage war, he best be prepared to fight a few battles. He grunts as she shoves his feet off of her lap and begins crawling her way over, and Soul raises a brow at the sudden change in position. There's not that much room, and they're sort of crammed in there together, but as she approaches, he still gets the hint and sets his guitar aside.

Sitting on him is still such a novel, exciting thing. Even just his knees - she _knows_ these knees, sore, knobby things that crack noisily every time he stands. His legs wobble beneath her weight for a moment before he straightens out, all traces of mischief wiped from the curve of his brow. Instead, he watches her quietly, his hands reaching for her without presumption. He doesn't push, doesn't tug, just lets her come to him on her own terms. It's sort of why she likes him so much.

His hands are soft on her hips, gently cupping and holding the shape of her, unassuming and gentle. Her own hands get caught up in his hair, on the heated slope of his neck, as she greedily attempts to soak in his sweetness

"Hey," he mutters then, fingers drumming a lazy beat just along her lower back. It's right where the hem of her crop top falls, and each warm fingertip makes her want to wiggle closer and press a kiss right on the rise of his cheek.

He's so cute. Too cute for her to handle, and his sleepy eyes should not be quite as dreamy as she finds them. "Are you sober?"

"What's it matter?"

Her thumb brushes along the curve of his cheekbone, trails down to trace the shape of his jawline. She can still remember a time when his face was much softer, when he wasn't quite so lanky, wasn't quite so close to being an adult. To think she has known him through so many incarnations, so many stages of life - shy elementary school Soul, awkward, try-hard middle school Soul with the drooly lips and chubby cheeks, and now late high school Soul, _nearly adult_ Soul, with that signature Evans (™) jawline and pronounced cheekbones - it's crazy, really, but also grounds her, in a way. Who else can she trust like this? Who else but Soul, who she has known nearly her whole life?

"It matters because I'm not going to kiss you if you taste like pot," she says matter-of-factly.

Soul pouts. "What."

"... And I don't want to go taking advantage of you if you're under the influence of something," she adds quietly, as Soul further cups her hips in his hands. She really, really hopes he hasn't been smoking anything, because tonight she is feeling brave, and if he's not in the right state of mind to make decisions, well, that will just spoil the fun.

His brows do furrow at that. "Maka, I'm still me when I'm high."

"But I'm not- not going to touch you and stuff if you're not sober." Her voice cracks a little, and his expression only pinches further, gently tugging her forward, now. "It's not right. You're _Soul_ but you're still impaired. I don't want to do that to you."

She's close, now, to truly sitting on his lap. And maybe all of this slowness hadn't been such a great idea after all, because as nervous as she is about taking that big leap and sending her v-card through the shredder, there is also security in being with Soul. There is certainly attraction. Unmistakable heat. The way his red eyes seem to set her ablaze with nothing more than a low, smoldering stare.

Soul leans forward, just enough to press his forehead to hers. Each flutter of his pale lashes is quiet, and Maka wants to kiss the delicate space beneath his eyes just as gently. "You can kiss me, Maka. 'M your boyfriend. Or something."

"Or _something,_ " she parrots cheekily.

His pink cheeks are so satisfying. "It mellows me out, Maka. Makes things less immediate and panicky."

She knows this. He's told her before, once, after a particularly noisy fight with his father. His eyes had been damp and bloodshot, and she hadn't been able to decide if it was from crying or the high. It makes things easier for him to deal with, he'd said. He'd been fifteen at the time, still barely taller than her, still somehow looking impossibly small and defeated, curled up on the corner of her bed, watching the way her ceiling fan spun and blurred.

But it doesn't make her point any less valid. Doesn't lessen her resolve. "It's not right for me to touch you when you're stoned, Soul," she says, very seriously, and feels him exhale against her lips. "N-Not… you know, sexually."

"We haven't done that yet."

They've barely even _talked_ about it yet. But she thinks about it almost constantly. What it might be like, mostly, but also things like this - if she'd be okay with sleeping with him while he's under the influence of something, be it alcohol or pot, his chill of choice. On top of that, there's still the underlying question of if she's ready or not for such a big, mature step. Condoms. Proper lubrication.

The way her mama calling her papa a dirty, ungrateful whore makes her feel.

Soul senses the shift in her mood effortlessly. His hands slide up, one cupping the curve of her waist while the other brushes her bangs from her eyes. "Not that we have to," he says. "I'm in no rush, you know."

"It's just…" she trails off.

He kisses her nose. "It's cool, Maka. Really."

It's hard, constantly being pulled in so many directions. She wants to be responsible, someone her mother can be proud of, the straight-A valedictorian with a one-way ticket to a big-league school. It's who she's supposed to be, after all. This is the legacy her mother has left for her, the shoes Maka is left to fill. An (expensive) college education will make a respectable woman out of her, and scholarships will not earn themselves.

At the same time, though, she wants to feel whole. She wants to be young, wants to live in the moment. It's like time is just slipping through her fingers. How has she been dating Soul for nearly three months now? It still feels like she'd kinda-sorta confessed to him only a week ago, still feels the same excited butterflies whenever she passes by her Halloween costume in her closet. Everything is just moving too fast, and just for a minute, even a moment, Maka wants it all to stop.

She won't be seventeen forever. She'll barely even be seventeen for a few more months. Heck, Soul's already crowned eighteen. Did so last month.

Her shoulders fall dejectedly. "It's not that I don't want to… you know. _Do it_ with you," she admits, blushing. Soul takes to gently kissing her forehead, then, right between her eyes and, after, right above her right brow, where she knows a particularly dark spattering of freckles lay. "I love you, Soul."

Time might be ticking away, but she will never tire of the way Soul looks at her, post love confession. " _Dork,_ " he says fondly. "I'm not into you because I think you'll ride me like a pony or something shallow like that. Take your time. Really. There's a whole lot more of you for me to love than just your body."

She might just cry. Who gave him the right to be so sweet? His words aren't even candied and she's still choking on cavities.

"Soon," she promises. More to herself than him, it seems, because he crooks a warm little half-smile at her and shakes his head.

.

Her lullaby is hardly a lullaby.

Music is not her strong point, but there is something strangely alluring about Soul's music, no matter how dark. He is soft in many ways, the type of boy who will brush her hair back while she cries and whines, but when it comes to his creative energy, he's almost depressing. Soul favors darker chords - whatever _that_ means - and almost frantic, distressing melodies. Sometimes, Maka thinks it's a direct look into his mind, and when she hears him play, it's almost like she understands the storm that ravages him.

It is a lullaby only by name. The song is almost haunting, in a way. It could be sweet, but it still leaves a yearning, sad feeling deep in her chest. Perhaps they've only dubbed it _her lullaby_ because he always tends to play it for her right before bed, and that only happens because she asks it of him. _I want to hear your soul,_ she'd said once, feeling sleepy and thoughtful, seated across from him on his floor, and he'd complied, a curious, dark set to his brows.

He hums it, sometimes. Pounding like a heartbeat, rapidly collecting momentum until he's muttering the words, burning them into her neck as he takes rests only to press kisses there. She thinks it's an effort to soften the blow of his truths, but he should know she doesn't scare easily. The song is just as much hers as it is his now, and a joint, shared hurt is one they can nurse together.

She only asks that he never censors it. That he never sugar-coats the darker, deeper harmonies, the way his fingers pluck away at the strings and the chorus melts into the verse, because Maka is not afraid of his dark. How can she understand him if she doesn't truly know him? There are things about Soul he cannot express in any other way than his music, and she'll be damned if she lets something like a confusing, daunting boundary defeat her. What kind of girlfriend would she be? What kind of _friend?_

Soul watches her with bottomless, deep eyes. Her glow-in-the-dark stars freckling her ceiling do nothing to illuminate him - he's but a bleary, bleak outline, moonlight casting window pane-shaped shadows along what little of him she can see. Still, she can see the strumming of his fingers, outlined barely, the pale of his skin almost glowing.

The song winds down. Strums become elongated, spaced apart. In the quiet between his breath, she hears a car whizzing by, engine humming. Their headlights flash bright, gradient light wiping over him, over her hands, clutching her covers up to her nose.

And then, it's over. He sighs. Lets the guitar fall into his lap and the weight finally drag down his shoulders. There's something to be said about a lullaby that's nearly therapeutic. Maka blinks up at him, hoping he understands what each meaningful flutter of her lashes is trying to say. _I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm here for you._

He exhales, long and slow, bones almost liquid as he reaches out to press her bangs from her eyes. "Night, bookworm."

"Soul."

"Hm?"

Is there a chaste way to suggest he spend the night? The tense, dreadful glances he keeps sending his own house through her window makes something sink deep in her gut. Will he even be able to comfortably sleep through the night in her tiny twin bed?

Maka grapples for his hand. She finds his wrist, instead, and gives a tug. "Sleepover?"

"I- I don't have pajamas, Maka," he says. "Your dad will skin me alive if he finds me in bed with you."

Silly Soul. Papa won't be home tonight. It's Friday. He works _overnight_ on Fridays and comes home Saturday afternoon smelling like his secretary's perfume. Saturdays are the hardest, as of late, because now Mama makes herself scarce and Maka can't handle the sniveling, pleading love her father showers her in when he steps foot in the house. It's strangling. Blood-burning. Makes her want to scratch out her last name on her school ID and maybe hurry up and make _Mrs. Maka Evans_ a _real_ thing, not just a daydream scratched out in pink glitter gel pen.

So she tugs again. "He _won't,_ " she says meaningfully, hopefully. Can he read her eyes in the night?

His thumb finds her lower lip. Her heart pounds in her throat and suddenly she's wide awake, wide green eyes basking in the cover of his hovering. There's just something about his sad, crooked smile that gets her choked up, makes her hands itch.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

She's unsure about college. She's unsure about where her future is taking her, what her true destiny is, whether or not her parents' marriage will last the year. But this - but _Soul_ \- well, she's never been quite so sure about anything. Maka nods and he sets his guitar down delicately on her floor, leans it against her wall.

He then glances at her, biting his lip. "So. Uh."

His hands are on his belt and Maka's eyes drop to the loose denim. _Ah._ That can't be comfortable, now can it? Who likes sleeping in jeans? Not her. She's currently wearing silky, cloud printed pajamas. It's not like she can just offer him a pair of her sleep shorts, because as leggy as she is, he's longer - and he might have those narrow boy-hips, but he's still too big, and he- well, Maka just blushes, swatting away thoughts of just what Soul keeps inside those jeans of his. Things she certainly doesn't have.

He swallows thickly. Maka watches his throat, inhaling, deciding. "Okay."

"Okay… what?"

"You can get comfortable, it's fine." Can he hear her blush in her voice? Her covers blanket her all the way to her nose and she burns. "I trust you not to do anything weird."

It's just sleeping together. It's not like they're _sleeping together._ Soul and Maka have had slumber parties plenty of times, even well into their teens. But they're dating now, and that's got to mean something, right? He touches her, sometimes, so gently that she thinks she might cry at the sheer heart of it. For someone who works so hard to appear careless and aloof, he's so darn mindful with her.

His sock-clad toes bump with her bare ones. Her original assumption had been correct - he is a little too tall to fit comfortably, and the blankets crinkle and ripple as his legs curl and bunch in order to keep his feet on the mattress. It only feels natural for her to mold herself around his shape, to curl her legs around him, turn onto her side so that he may sling an arm around her waist and hold her close. This is spooning, isn't it? And he's definitely not wearing his pants anymore; his hairy legs tickle her shaved calves, and Maka presses her face into the rise of her pillows, blushing.

Lips pressing to the back of her neck is the last thing she remembers before falling asleep.

.

Mama clicks her tongue as Soul shuffles out the door, flipping his hoodie up.

If she were wise, she'd keep her mouth shut and bury her nose in her book. A good girl would not question her mother's intuition, or some other maternal know-it-all bull - Maka hugs her knees to her chest just thinking about it and mindlessly stares at the television as Saturday morning cartoons flicker with color.

Perhaps she's not half the studious, bright daughter she thought she was. Maka bites her lip and asks, "What?"

For her part, Mama seems just as surprised at Maka's wise tongue. She turns her stare to her, taking it all in - Maka's blonde braids loose around her ears, wearing Soul's socks, knobby knees pressed to her chest. It's almost a defense mechanism, cramming herself into such small, fetal shapes, tucking her limbs in close. Any excess inch of skin is dangerous. At least this way, she's a harder target to find and judge.

And yet here she is, opening her big mouth and challenging authority. Always so contrary, she is. Maybe her stubborn pride will be the death of her someday, but it's learned behavior. Mama's raised brow and clenched fists are proof enough of that. Maka has learned from the best.

"Nothing," she says airily.

It's never nothing. Maka's chin rests on her knees as she awaits her judgement.

"His dad yells a lot," Maka mumbles, training her eyes on the television set instead of her mother's laser-sharp stare. Her dark eyes are much less relenting than Soul's. Much more imposing, too. "I told him he could spend the night. He didn't even ask, I just offered."

"You just offered to let your boyfriend spend the night. Alone. In your bedroom."

When she says it like _that,_ it feels like an interrogation. Perhaps she should've been born with Papa's red hair; she's already got his green eyes and freckles, after all. When she's sitting tiny on the couch like this, it's easy to feel like the villain. And by all means, for the past few years, Papa has been the villain.

She's just never seen herself as the villain. It'd been a nice thing. And Mama hadn't seen the dark staining beneath Soul's eyes, the sleepy, exhausted way he'd scratched his neck and pulled his hair. It's not fair, she thinks. It's not like she'd opened her legs for _just any_ boy - it's not like she'd even opened her legs _at all_. They'd done nothing but slept. And maybe cuddled, just a bit. But nothing naughty, nothing sexual. He'd pressed his lips to her cheek in the morning light and made her feel special and whole.

Maka chews her lip. "Nothing happened-"

Her mother sighs spectacularly. "Boys can't be trusted, sweetheart. Has your papa not taught you that yet? Look at him - you give him an inch and he takes a damn mile-"

Maybe if she sinks far enough into the couch cushions she'll disappear. Being on the opposing end of Mama's tirade is demeaning, and discouraging, and Maka wonders if it'll always be like this, if when she hits eighteen she will be free from her mother's judgement. She knows it's not unwarranted - or, at least, it's not coming from nowhere. Mama had been just seventeen when Papa had knocked her up. Maka's parents married at the tender age of eighteen, with a bouncing, grinning baby in blonde pigtails on a hip.

She's seen the wedding pictures. She knows she drooled all over Mama's poofy sleeves and she knows Papa paraded her around like the crown jewels.

"I didn't have sex with him," Maka blurts.

Such adult words. A big girl claim. Mama's eyes narrow, and Maka knows just what she's about to say. How can she not, when she's just the same, just as bossy and stubborn? She's her spitting image, after all. Papa says it, aunt Marie says it. _You have your mother's lips. Your mother's smile._

She wonders if she has her mother's frown, too. Wonders if it scalds just as much.

"Good," she says, and Maka's never felt quite so much like a mistake. "The last thing you need is to get pregnant before you've even settled on a college. Which reminds me, Maka, this came in the mail for you…"

She doesn't even look up from _Pokemon._ "Put it in the pile with the rest of them."

.

Maka decides the internet is a suitable distraction.

AOL dials to life, screen flickering, and just like that, the world wide web is at her fingertips. Technology is amazing, she thinks, clicking automatically on the little icon that chimes, " _You've got mail!"_

Scrolling through her inbox lasts her about fifteen minutes. Mostly junk mail, a few replies here and there from Crona about how they've been doing (e-mail is less anxiety-inducing for them than instant messenger, apparently), a handful of spam mail - nothing too demanding. Another ten minutes or so are dedicated to crafting out Crona's reply, complete with oodles of colon-parenthesis and colon-capital-d, to especially soften the blow of the incoming notification. Besides, they're cute, and Maka could use some harmless, childish cute in her life right about now.

And then, ugh, distraction over. It's like she can't stop thinking about the disapproving look on her mother's face, the blatant disappointment the moment Maka had spoken up. An iron-clad nerve is as much of a blessing as it is a poison, and this is proof - she's certainly taken a few steps down in the daughter-of-the-year listings. Pretty soon, she'll be deeper on the shitlist than Papa.

That's saying something. Papa sleeps around like it's his job. Maka just invited one (1) boy she trusted and loved and worried about to spend the night with her. Clothed.

... _Mostly_ clothed. Okay, so Soul hadn't been wearing pants exactly, but he was in jeans! Nobody likes to sleep in jeans! It was innocent! It's not like his cooties can seep through his boxer shorts and penetrate her sensitive virgin-skin and turn her into a floozy. Or… whatever it is Mama thinks will happen, should Maka actually, truly sleep with Soul. Like, go all the way. Let him hit it.

_Ugh._

Groaning, she holds her face in her hands and plants her elbows right on her computer desk. What a _headache._ What is a girl supposed to do when she's being pulled so many directions? By all means, she wants to get into a good college - maybe even one on the east coast - but at the same time, she doesn't want to have to sacrifice her relationship in order to do so. And it's true that Soul is in no real hurry to get into her pants, so to speak. But would it be so wrong if he did? And if she wanted it, too? Would it really be that bad?

Maka likes to think she's a smart cookie. A bright girl, who knows to use a condom, who knows that Soul can be trusted with such vulnerability.

Well, she's online for a reason. Her answers are just one AOL-keyword away. If, uh, she can manage to word it correctly. _Will sex with her boyfriend at 17 make her a dirty, stupid slut?_

Can she get into _college_ if she's not a pristine _virgin_? Will letting Soul go all the way with her lessen her status? And - most importantly, she thinks, squirming in her pink computer chair - will it _hurt?_ Because she's heard - well, read, mostly, in school, that it _does_ hurt the first time for a girl, and something about blood, too, because of broken hymens - and is it really worth it, for a little hokey pokey? Does she really want to bleed all over Soul's expensive sheets?

Maka bites her lip and really thinks about it. Mostly, she thinks about Soul's nervous smiles, long, long fingers, warm eyes and that tongue, peeking out from between his lips. And yeah, okay, maybe she does get it. For Soul, it might be worth it. Only for Soul, though.

Maybe flipping through her Papa's Playboy magazines would be easier. But then she'd have the evidence on her hands, and Mama would be able to sniff the stench out on her fingertips within moments. Besides, ergh. Who knows where those things have been? Maaaybe she doesn't really wanna put her hands anywhere near them, actually. Scratch that thought.

 _It should not be this hard!_ She's nearly eighteen, for goodness sake. Liz has no problem sleeping with whoever she wants. Liz had no damn problem sleeping with Soul. _High,_ too! They'd both been high, and she'd had no issue riding him like a noble steed.

At the same time, Liz deals with not-nice rumors, and only fights them off with an intense eyeroll and a middle finger waving in the air. Liz pays for her sexual identity with an unsavory reputation - to be labeled as easy while still in high school is social suicide. More than that, if Liz really, truly does like Tsubaki the way Maka's been led to believe - and she's pretty sure she does, if that faint lipstick stain on Tsu's collar is any evidence - then she's in for even more of a headache.

She's brave. And Maka respects that bravery. Admires it, even.

She's inspired enough to finally work up the nerve to break out the ol' search function and see what answers she can uncover herself. Because dammit, if Liz can reclaim her body for herself, and if Liz can punch societal norms in the face and love who she damn well pleases, then Maka can sleep with the boy she likes and still be Mama's brilliant little shadow, too. It can be done. It has to be done.

When the time comes, of course. In a few weeks. Or months.

(Blushes, squirms, slaps her cheeks. _Stupid girl._ )

Maka checks over her right shoulder. Then her left. Peeks her way out the window to make sure no roaming neighbors or stray cats are eavesdropping on her imminent sexual discovery. Double checks behind her, just to solidify her suspicion that yes, her door is closed and yes, that is the lock, switched shut, no stray mothers will be wandering into her bedroom anytime soon.

Deep breath. She can do this. She is nearly an adult. In less than year, she'll be in college, for goodness sake.

Maka gets as far working up the nerve before the phone rings and she jumps out of her chair, as if the keyboard had burned her. She shoots a glance upward, toward her fading, glowing stars and winces. The fates have spoken. They are watching and they have _spoken._

"I've GOT IT," she shrieks, hands shaking as she rips the phone out of its charging port and clicks talk before Mama has the chance to bang on her door. " _HELLO."_

Blake's cackling is about the last thing she needs right now. " _Someone's_ buggin'."

"You have the worst timing in the world, do you know that?" she asks, aptly x-ing out of her fizzling AOL session. For a brief, fleeting moment, she considers tossing her monitor out the window and thereby demolishing any evidence of her sinful ways, but then reason floods back through her and her nerves turn to steel. "What do you want?"

"Yo!" he shouts, then laughs. "Your boytoy's here and wants to know if you're down for pizza tonight, his treat."

Her traitorous heart does an excited flutter in her chest. Maybe even a loop-di-loop. _Christ._ "Why didn't he just call me himself, then?"

"Yer mom's scary."

That gets her to cringe. Yeah, that's fair. Her Mama had sort of given him the stink eye this morning. Definitely had eyed his discarded jeans on Maka's carpet with something akin to murder. Mama can be like a bear when she wants to be, and although Maka finds it both admirable and inspiring, at times - like this morning - it's a little… _discouraging,_ for lack of a better word. And sure, she can see why Soul might want to avoid communication with Mama Albarn for a while. Any normal person would.

Heck, Maka's sort of avoiding her, too. The disappointment is poignant, and Maka thinks, just for a moment, she might understand why Papa spends so many nights away from home.

Only a little. Cheaters never prosper and men are the salt of the Earth, still. Especially married men, with insecure daughters and beautiful, powerful wives _. Disgusting._

Scrubbing at her face, she sighs, "Yeah," and then drops down to sit on the edge of her bed. The blankets are still delightfully russed from Soul's long legs and she can't stop looking at them, as if they're a piece of abstract art meant to be admired and studied. He'd been there, only hours ago, long arms looped around her like a protective veil. It'd been warm, and safe, and - she's hopeless, really. Maka stuffs her feet into her boots and sets to tying her lace instead of sitting and stewing on it further.

"Is that yeah, you'll come, or yeah, your mom's a tyrant?"

"Hey!" she gasps, "she's not a _tyrant!_ "

"Cockblock, though."

She ties her boots with crudely-controlled aggression. Little does he know, she's been internally waffling over such conflict for the better half of her day. "She's just looking out for me," Maka says through her teeth, still unprepared to accept such judgement of her idol.

" _Whaaatever,_ chica! Pizza, hour. Be there or be square."

The dialtone hums into her ear and Maka sits, one shoe tied, with the phone pressed between her shoulder and cheek. From through her closed door, she hears rustling in the kitchen, whispered-threats that carry through the halls like the ticking of a grandfather clock. It's not that she tries to dwell on the impending doom, but it hangs thick like fog and it's damn near impossible to wade her way through it without feeling at least a little discouraged.

Papa's home. It's about that time, after all. His sniveling is unmistakable.

She's already a wildchild today, so she takes the window again. Ties a hoodie around her waist, stuffs her wallet into her pocket and clicks her computer monitor off before worming her way through the makeshift exit. Dealing with her parents crumbling matrimony just isn't in the stars; Maka can only deal with so much turmoil at once, can only split her heart so many ways before she starts to fray, and this is about it. She cannot do it all. College, Soul, Mama's disapproving stare - Maka's already booked.

Perhaps Blake is actually a blessing in disguise. Outside of the tomb she calls a home, it's already easier to breathe.


	7. more than words

**1998**

.

"I'll trade you my Cloyster for your holographic Charizard," Blake barters.

From over the edge of her textbook, she watches Soul's nose wrinkle up adorably. Not for the first time, she thinks about how cute he is when he does just about anything - but when he's confused, especially, because there's a kissable quirk in his brow and Maka has to burn her focus back onto her studies. Still, it's impossible not to overhear their conversation, and Soul's resulting chuff is just as amusing as it is interesting.

"What," he ends up blurting after, scratching his head. "Why in the world would I trade my holographic Charizard for a damn Cloyster?"

Blake leans forward and - dammit all, she's definitely watching through her peripherals - grins maddeningly. Soul jerks back, and Maka's forced to assume Blake has mystery meat breath, or something akin. Stifling her laugh, she burrows further into Soul's shoulder, glueing her stare back onto her Calc textbook.

For his part, he relents, allowing her to lean her weight on him with nothing more than an airy, melodramatic sigh and an arm slung around her shoulder.

"Eugh." Blake makes a crude, fake-gagging noise and slides his Cloyster back across the table. "Cuz of that. You two are gross, you know that?"

"You literally sucked face with Kim all through Study Hall last year," Soul says, very dryly.

Maka can't stop herself from snorting at that, and Soul squirms, only to rest his hand comfortably on the curve of her waist. He's never pushy with his affections, but touchy, still, and soon the cool skin of his palm is worming its way beneath her stolen flannel and pressing flat to her hip. It's done offhandedly, carelessly, as if it's nothing, but she can still feel his body heat practically glowing next to her, and pink colors down the back of his neck, beneath the shaggy weight of his hair.

Well, it is December. And she is wearing his clothes, albeit shoddily. His arms are longer than hers, so the flannel has to be rolled up at least twice in order for Maka to retain use of her hands, but still - she can allow some casual PDA, if under the premise of shared body heat. It's not like she enjoys the feeling of his bare skin on hers or anything. Not like it sparks watercolor over the pale canvas of her cheeks at all.

Hopeless. She's _hopeless,_ and his index finger has begun rubbing slow, maddening circles into the sensitive skin right above her waistline. It's enough to thaw her attention to nothing, and she feels a bit like melting next to him, panting quietly like a useless dog, unable to keep her hormones in check. They're in public, dammit.

Blake sighs, so very falsely demure. "Well," he says, with great, exasperated _meaning,_ "I just thought you could use one, all things considered."

"A- a Cloyster?"

"Affirmative."

Soul's scowl sets so deep she can feel it rumbling in her bones. Maka flips the page distractedly, numbers blurring together, as his finger rubs away her study drive. Her thighs feel tight, pressed together, and it is sheer, iron-clad willpower that keeps her from hiding her face in his sleeve. To be reduced to a needy, clingy girl so easily - well, her mother would not be proud.

"I don't follow," he says, his thumb now tracing the slight curve of her waist. Maka shivers beneath his touch, nothing more than a puddle of goosebumps and overstimulated teenager.

His blue hair is bright in the sunlight, and his frosted tips could use some touchups. Still, his expression is somehow bolder than his terrible, gel-crusted hair, and he says, "Because you're sure not getting any from _her,_ " just as she feels Soul tense up beside her.

That finger's stopped melting her bones, which is both relieving and disappointing, and Soul's hand slides out of her shirt almost defensively as he instead clutches the lunch table with both hands. "Black*Star," he hisses, as icy as he is smoldering; that blush runs so brightly up his neck, well beneath his worn collar, and Maka would give almost anything to peek down the line of his back and see just how far it stretches. "Lay off."

Blue brows waggling a mile a minute, he _laughs_. "You know you want it," he says, a teasing lilt to his tone, and Soul swats his hands away as one might a pesky fly. "Just look at it."

"Cut it out," Soul growls.

"It's not that rare. _Well,_ " Blake says, grin widening, impossibly, "unless you're holding out for _that_ one. Prime rarity, hers is. Never before unwrapped, mint condition, still in the packaging-"

" _Blake!"_

No amount of Calculus will distract her from such a strange conversation. Her book shuts with a clap on her lap and Soul scowls, leaning forward and going as far as to bare his teeth at Blake like an attack dog. Bewildered, Maka sets her textbook on the table and sits straighter, struggling to see over Soul's shoulder and discover just, exactly, what a Cloyster looks like. "I don't-"

"No," Soul says, still scowling, and traps Blake's card beneath his hand. The corner's a bit worn, but it's all she can see of the card, and she wishes she'd caught that episode of the anime because being clueless is embarrassing and not something that sits well with Maka Albarn, bookworm extraordinaire, she who soaks up information like a sponge and gets obsessively straight A's.

She's a know-it-all at heart. A brainy, determined know-it-all, and being denied such important information really grinds her gears. A whine growls in her throat, and she reaches a hand out to slip the card from beneath Soul's palm. "I just want to see it," she says around a fierce pout and puppy dog eyes.

Blake's grinning face burns her alive, but it's Soul's tight, displeasured tone that really piques her curiosity to new heights. "It's nothing," he grunts passionately, and Maka only strains further to grab ahold of such forbidden context. "He's just being dumb and gross, what else-"

"It's a Pokemon!"

"An _innuendo_ ," he grunts, nudging her back gently. Soul shoves the card back into Blake's lap and Maka's never hated her short little arms more than she does now. "A shitty one at that. _Whatever._ "

Her sights set on Blake, instead. What a foolish move on Soul's part. If he thinks Blake will withhold on such apparently hilarious joke material, he's about to be sorely mistaken. Perhaps she knows this blue-haired buffoon better than his best dudefriend does - because if there's anything Maka's sure about, it's that Black*Star will spill the beans if it means getting a good laugh out of it. And judging by the teasing, amused quirk in his brow, he most certainly _will_. Beyond everything else, Blake values a good laugh. A good, hearty, body-quaking laugh, even if it is at the expense of his best _dude_.

Because that's just how the cookie crumbles. That is how his strange little brain functions. Jokes first, undying loyalty and muscle-brained ferocity later.

And he proves her right as he flips the card around. "Check it, Albarn," he says conspiratorially, as Soul gapes beside her and reaches out to snatch away the context of his grumpy expression and pink cheeks. Blake leans away, though, holding the Pokemon card out of reach and waving it around like some sort of trophy, and she-

It's… some sort of oyster Pokemon? With a crude, grinning little face in the center of- _oh._

" _Blake!"_

His grin only broadens, and as Maka jumps up to also snatch his disgusting, lewd, inappropriate joke out of his grubby hands, he jumps to stand on his chair and cackle obnoxiously. He's not a particularly tall boy - he's quite short, actually, his larger-than-life presence purely based on the mass of his bulging muscles shifting in his noisy windbreaker - but Maka is just short enough for his makeshift vagina joke to be out of reach. And like the crude little pest he is, Blake actually laughs out loud as she jumps up to challenge him, hands fisted at her sides as Soul glowers between them, supremely uncomfortable with everything in the world.

"Dude can only hold out for so loooong, pigtails," Blake teases, waving the card around all the more as she stomps around. "C'mon, you're no pipsqueak anymore, we can talk about this-"

"I don't want _you_ talking about my _private parts,_ " she says, hissing.

He stops waving the card to and fro just to waggle his brows at her instead. His lack of motion only makes the intense blurring of his eyebrows all the more irritating and blatant. "Ooh. So I can't, but someone else can?"

"What."

"Here," he says, snapping his wrist as if throwing a frisbee; the card cuts through the air, bonking Soul directly in the nose. "She doesn't care if it's in your hands, big boy. Or mouth."

He's impossible. Disgusting. Maka tugs on her pigtails and makes a growling sound in the back of her throat, face scalding, and Soul's no better. His scowl is soul-deep by now, perhaps forever etched into the tired lines of his face as he rips the damn card in half without even flinching. It doesn't deter Blake's laughter - in fact, it might provoke it even more - but Soul crumples up the Pokemon confetti regardless and dumps it on the ground.

.

There's _no pressure,_ but Maka feels like time is slipping through her fingers.

Before she knows it, she's eighteen, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake while her parents sit on opposite sides of the table, blatantly avoiding one another's eye. The tension sits thickly within the party, like a heavy, damp pair of jeans, and Maka can barely keep a frown off her face as her mother stands up abruptly and makes her way to the kitchen without a word.

"Plates?" she asks.

No response, but the clattering of silverware on ceramic is telling enough. Maka squirms in her seat, uncomfortably plucking at the string beneath her chin, party hat wobbling atop her head. The whole thing seems so childish now, in retrospect - why bother asking Papa to stay home for her party if he's only going to make things more awkward? Why bother, if he's only going to squint at Soul, as if he's some sort of wanted criminal or something? _I'm not you,_ she wants to say, but can't yet find the words. _I haven't given myself away, stop looking at him like that._

She's always so defensive over Soul. Like a mama bear.

Only she's not his mother. Certainly not related to him, if the way they kiss each other hello and goodbye is any evidence. The way he watches her with those warm, concerned eyes makes her blood burn and something tighten in her chest, impossibly caught up in his curious, careful warmth. He offers her a nervous, twitching smile, the corner of his lip quirking only slightly before he raises his glass to his lips and takes a sip.

"Are we going to play pin the tail on the donkey, too?" comes Blake, while dismantling his own pointed party hat. The elastic string has become a weapon, and he's taken to trying to flick Liz's wrist, much to her annoyance. "This is pretty middle school, pigtails."

"Maka's always had parties," Spirit says. It's as if he springs back to life the moment his wife's presence has left the room, like that notable perk and exuberance sparks back, like a firecracker. "Keep complaining and you won't get any cake!"

"Bleh, I don't need cake."

"It's chocolate swirl. The ol' Spirit Special."

Blake winces. Reconsiders his smart tongue. "... On the other hand… maybe this shindig isn't so buggin' after all."

Well, at least Papa is good for something. Still, Blake kind of has a point - the party hats are cute, and she really sort of likes blowing out candles, but it does feel a little young for her eighteenth birthday. Everyone gathered around the table, circling her like she's a spectacle to behold. What a big girl she is now. So adult, so _mature_ , in her twintails and polka-dot printed cone hat. Even now, she's so saturated in her youth.

Even now, she's still clinging to something that isn't meant to be held. Seventeen's flying out the window, and eighteen already feels dizzying, like the incoming, sure-fire responsibility and maturity makes her sick. In half a year, she'll be living on her own in a dorm room. In half a year, there will be no more Mama and Papa arguing while she tries to sleep, no more passive-aggression at the dinner table.

In half a year, there will be no more Soul.

Change is not _simple_. Growing up isn't black and white, not a fizzled, smoking candle, blown out from a simple exhale of breath. She is no more adult than she had been merely hours before, a day ago - but without a doubt, she'll be held more accountable for everything, now that she's no longer a minor.

It's weird. Disorienting to think about. Maka decides to pick a candle out of her cake and lick the frosting off of the bottom instead of focusing on it. There are other things to focus on, aside from stressing over her rapidly approaching graduation and the barely-banked inferno that is her parents marriage. Like Soul, for example, and the way his brow hooks while she licks the wax clean of sugary sweetness. Like the way he can't stop watching her mouth, watching the way her tongue peeks out between her lips and drags painstakingly across the bottom edge of the candle.

Maybe what Maka really needs is a little bit of control.

.

The leather of his seat is cool on her bare back. His heat hasn't kicked on yet but the windows are still fogging up, the mere suggestion of it all sending goosebumps up her arching spine.

His car has always felt so _secluded_. It's just one of _their_ spaces, a closed off, private spot where time seems to freeze. Soul looks particularly timeless in the shadow of the night, darkness casting shadows on his jaw, giving him the illusion of being sharper, more defined, as if he isn't only eighteen, but instead twenty-something - a _man_. Like he doesn't struggle with both adolescent demons and very adult fears. As if there isn't a furby locked in his closet, just because it gives him the heebie-jeebies.

Even with the nearly flammatory spark between them, Maka still feels a chill run up her spine. Silly, because Soul's skin is hot to the touch, and she's quite sure he'll burn her with his tongue if they're not careful. But she is nearly topless, all things considered, and her soft cotton bra isn't exactly winter wear. Goosebumps spread like wildfire

" _Christ,"_ he swears quietly, running a delicate hand along the curve of her waist. His thumb caresses gently, dipping ticklishly over her navel, along the dip of her hip bones, right along the hem of her jeans, where the lace trim of her panties peeks out.

Such fine-brewed torture should be illegal. He touches her with such gentle, reverent grace that it nearly chokes her up. Her slouchy grunge head, who blasts his music too loud and smokes like a chimney and shuts down in the face of confrontation _touches her like she's fine china_. It's stupid - she's _not fragile,_ not something that will shatter in his hands should he hold her too tightly, but the sentimentality of it makes her stupid, too. Maybe they're destined to be together, two merry, love-drunk fools, unable to fully grasp the magnitude of their feelings in such young, clumsy hands.

Perhaps it's why she can't stop shaking. Why she feels like her stomach is throbbing in her throat, too. It _can't_ be because she doesn't want this, because there's nowhere else in the world she would rather be than right here with him, finally taking this huge, crucial step.

His thumbnail catches on a loose thread, unraveling the dainty elastic of her undies. He mumbles something - an apology, maybe? - and then, cautiously, with soft eyes monitoring her, presses his lips to her bare skin.

Forget her stomach. Her entire heart's clogged up in her throat now, and breathing is not as intuitive as it should be. Maka sucks up all of the heady, molten air into her lungs and tries to breathe courage, but somewhere in the middle it gets lost in translation, and she just ends up shivering beneath him.

"Ah." Soul peeks up at her through his hair - messy, long hair, and if her hands would stop shaking, she'd brush it from his eyes - and bites his lip. "Is this okay?"

It _should_ be. They've been dating for months. She's loved him - _loved him,_ so much that it's hard for her to _put into words_ \- for years, and she's known him for longer. He is all of the spaces in between, the dark curtains across the way, the solemn withdrawn melody that trickles like raindrops on her windowsill. This is Soul, and Maka can't understand why she can't just brave her way through something as silly as losing her damn virginity.

"Yes," she says, pushing her fingers through his hair to keep them occupied. At his raised brow, she breathes through her nose and swallows her thundering heart.

"Because it's okay if it's not," Soul adds hastily, eyes flickering from the dainty hem of her panties to her bitten lip, unsure. "We don't have to do this."

But she does. She does, because she is not afraid of anything. Not failure, not college, not moving out or growing up - and more than anything else, Maka is not afraid of becoming her parents. She is Maka first and Albarn second, and she can idealize the good without subjecting herself to the bad, too.

"It's fine," she grits out.

Soul's breath is warm on her tummy. "That's not exactly reassuring."

" _Soul."_

"We don't have to do this," he says again, like a damn broken record; his playlist shifts songs, this one more mellow in tone, lazy beats that melt her bones and make the butterflies in her stomach swell up like balloons, ready to burst at any given moment. "We can-"

"No!" she gasps, sitting up and grabbing his wrists as he attempts to lean back. "No, we can do this. _I_ can do this."

"In the back seat of my car?" he asks, caught somewhere in between a self-depreciating snort and a cringe. His palms sit warmly on her bare knees, cupping themselves there, calloused thumbs rubbing the tender skin of her thighs apologetically. "Cuz this isn't exactly the, uh, ideal place for your first time, ya know, and if you're nervous-"

"I'm _not_ nervous!"

Her voice cracks and that's all the answer Soul needs.

His expression softens, somehow, the burning wine in his eyes crackling down to glowing embers. There's that nervous, hesitant quirk in his smile, the crooked way one side of his lips lifts just so. The way he sits there, with gentle hands still pressed chastely to her knees, hair tangled, discarded flannel pooled between them, looking tired and concerned - she's been here a thousand times in her dreams, has kissed those hesitant lips and held his face in her hands while facing such juvenile fears like rejection and loss without half the jittery unease incapacitating her. It might be Soul's backseat, but she is still in control here. She is still the one who calls the shots, who has gotten the both of them undressed thus far, who has left that delightful, blooming hickey on his neck.

He finds her hands, instead, and holds them there between the two of them. His flannel scratches the backs of her fingers. "It's your birthday, you know, and not mine. I don't _need_ anything. 'S not really much of a gift if you're not really feelin' it, Maka."

The way he smiles at her breaks her heart. "I love you," she says, urgently, squeezing his hands in hers. "It's not- I want this, it's just-"

Pink, he brings her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. The way he peeks at her through dark, half-lidded eyes strokes the fire within that confuses her so; how is it possible to live through such conflicting urges?

She wants him, goodness, does she _want_ him - not a moment goes by where she doesn't think about his mouth, or the way his sleek hipbones peek out from above the hem of his jeans, or about that distinct, arousing hardness she'd felt in his lap - and yet, even now, there's still something restraining her, something pulling her back, like puppet strings, dangling her through center stage.

It's frustrating. It chokes her up, and Maka sniffles angrily. "... I don't know."

He doesn't say anything, just cradles her hands on his knees instead. His playlist moves on, filling the void where their tangled, trembling hearts had just nearly been intertwined, when her legs had been laced around his hips and his mouth on hers. It's some murky acoustic number now, nearly drowned out by seductive, thrumming basslines.

Finally, though, he does crack, like a hard candy and ah, there's that gooey center. He squeezes her hands in his and asks, "Nervous?"

Maka swallows. Nods her head after a beat, staring pointedly at her knees.

"... Scared?"

 _Not scared of anything,_ she thinks stubbornly. Not Soul, never Soul, but she finds herself nodding mindlessly anyway, hating herself, hating the way she can't stop thinking about her parents, even now. Sex hadn't saved their relationship.

All sex had given them was a baby at seventeen. All sex had given her mother was an unfaithful husband-to-be and no home to come back to. To erase such ingrained, conditioned suspicions about premarital sex, and the types of girls who _open their legs_ for sex-hungry teenage boys - who will say whatever it takes to get _inside of her_ \- well, it's a hard pill to swallow.

And yet, even so, this is _Soul._ Soul, who has waited for so very long, even though he'd held the backs of her thighs with such a delightfully possessive dig to his fingers, who can't seem to meet anyone's eye but hers, who tugs on the straps of her overalls and whines about stray cats but still took Blair in all the same. How could there ever be anyone else? How could she ever trust anyone - _love_ anyone - the way she does Soul?

It's impossible. Everything is impossible, and words have never been hard for a bookworm like her, but suddenly her endless supply has run dry. Stupid. Perhaps she should bonk _herself_ in the head with her favorite dictionary, just to remind herself of who she is. In half a year, this will not even be an option anymore. In half a year, she'll be off in a dorm room, studying, and he'll-

She doesn't know where Soul will be. By her side, hopefully? But he had said he didn't plan on going to college… but would he stay here, even then? Would he stay with his parents, unhappy and antsy?

Would he pack up with his band and hit the road? She often wonders if Soul has it in him to fully give in to his music, to submit himself to the creative genius that really makes him tick. To have so much talent - to make so much _spark_ \- and have such little faith in his own abilities breaks her heart. No matter how many times she tells him, he never seems to get it. He hears but never understands.

The knot in her chest tightens.

"That's okay," he mumbles, very quietly. "I was- uh, you know. Mm. Yours should be special, huh? Girls want, like, rose petals and sappy, bad music and poems, right? 'Nd this isn't exactly, uh… romantic."

That's right. She might be a fumbling, nervous rookie, but he's done this before. Remembering such is like a slap to the face.

It shouldn't be, though. There's no one but the two of them for miles, parked in the woods, alone in his car. Still, there's still a part of her, no matter how she despises it, that worries she won't be enough. Jealousy is evil, and wrong, and tears apart perfectly good relationships, but it licks at Maka's sore wounds and feels like salt in her veins. Stupid, stupid girl. Insecurity is something teenage girls feel, and she is an adult now, technically. _Apparently._

He drops her hands only to reach and cradle her face. Maka's never felt smaller. "Hey," he says, just as gently as before, "hey, it's okay."

Maka can't pinpoint when exactly she started crying, and yet, as the tears roll over her lips, she knows it was never worth fighting. Such a little girl, crying over every little thing that confuses her. Such a pathetic girl, for relying on warm boy hands to lessen the blow. "I'm not- I love you so much it makes me angry," she blurts, blushing now, even through her tears.

Ah, well, at least he pinks at that, too. "Ah…?"

" _So much,_ " she squeaks, scrubbing at her own face. "I don't know why I can't just…! I want this. I want _you,_ " she breathes, blinking at him through damp lashes, the bloated butterflies burning holes in her chest. "I just don't know how to have you without losing me."

His thumbs press to her cheeks and, oh, she can taste her tears on her lips. His fingers feel wet on her skin, and Soul presses pause on the whole meaningful gaze thing he's got on lockdown to kiss the very tip of her nose. "You won't."

"You don't know that!" she says, sniffling.

"I know you sound like a cheesy ballad right now."

She huffs, swatting at his chest. His bare chest. If she's even half as pink as she feels, he just might burn from being in her orbit. Without his hands on her, it's easier to think, easier to breathe - and Maka scrubs her face clean of tears, inhales deeply and pushes her shoulders back. If she can't look tough baring her midriff (and collarbones, and sternum, _oh my!_ ) how can she ever expect to feel it, too?

"Don't be a jerk," she huffs.

His skin is molten, somehow, beneath her palms, despite it being about eleven degrees too cold for her liking outside his car. It distracts her a little. Seems like it distracts him, too, judging by the way his pulse flutters beneath her straying fingers. Are these her hands, cradling around his throat, thumbs pressed precariously to his bobbing Adam's apple?

It shouldn't feel so intimate. She's practically topless. There are more revealing things to focus on than the flutter of Soul's pulse, or the way his throat moves every time he swallows.

"I'm always a jerk," he says. "Thought you knew that."

No boy can be a true jerk when he hands her discarded shirt back with kind hands and averted eyes.

Maka presses the wrinkled cotton to her chest and wishes she was still touching him instead. Wishes she could press her hand over his heart and feel every breath he takes, every rise and fall - mostly, though, she wants to drown in the metronome of his heartbeat. _Her_ heart is a useless hummingbird, caught in the cage of her ribs, strangled birdsong and all.

"I really thought I could do it this time," she mutters, dejected.

Soul gives a shrug. He looks so silly now that he's not leaning over her, just a little too tall to be sitting on his knees; his slouch is passionate, and Maka can't tell if it's part of his _look_ or if his posture really is that terrible. She wants to lock part of him away for herself, for when the distance inevitably splits them and she has nothing else to sing her to sleep at night. It's so selfish, to want to memorize the way he sighs her name as he sinks as deeply as he can within her, to be as humanly close to another person as he possibly can - it's the intimacy she wants. It's the intimacy she craves.

Maka can't decide if nearly half a year of dating is too soon for questions of forever.

Overthinking will get her nowhere. Perhaps Soul thinks so too, because before she can even piece the words together, his hand is atop her head and he's rubbing incessantly, more like a big brother than a shirtless boyfriend who has narrowly been denied sex. _Again._

"Stooop, my hair!"

He grins and flicks a stray hair tie at her. "You're gonna lose those hair ties in the cracks between the seats," he teases, sounding far too thrilled with the fact. "Gonna keep them as collateral so you'll have to listen to my music and let me drive you around."

"You did not just suggest a hostage situation."

His resulting cackle does nothing to diminish the chemistry between them. And although she pulls her shirt over her head, and Soul watches her bare abdomen as she tugs the cotton hem down past her belly button, they do not erupt into an insatiable tangle of hormonal, horny teenagers - although she certainly feels like one, as Soul clambers his way into the front seat, watching the way the wiry muscles in his arm flex. He's so noodly, so damn lanky, but he's still more than enough to get her engines revving. The damn guy still hasn't slid back into his flannel, and while his limbs are long and not quite as well built as hers, his pretty expanse of his bare back - and shifting shoulderblades - relight something deep within her.

Christ. She's hopeless. How is it fair, to want someone and not be able to work up the nerve to go for it? Maka wants to box up these childish fears and lock them away in the attic where they belong; at eighteen, shouldn't she be less afraid of making her parents' mistakes? At eighteen, shouldn't she be more concerned with being Maka instead?

Soul sure doesn't seem too torn up over their canceled boinking session. She's not sure if such blatant acceptance of her unease is comforting or not; because, on one hand, to know he respects her and wants her to be comfortable and totally sure more than anything else warms her heart and makes her think that she's picked the right one - and on the other hand, the jealous, insecure part of her wonders if he never wanted to sleep with her in the first place.

"Soul?" she pipes up.

He hums halfheartedly, sliding himself more comfortably into the driver's seat. When she doesn't immediately follow, he glances over his shoulder and raises a brow. "Huh?"

"Do you… want to do it?"

"... Uh-"

"B-Because, if you don't, it's okay, I mean-"

They will never achieve their former coloring again. For as long as the both of them shall live, it seems Soul and Maka are destined to paint themselves pink. His fingers are long and distracting as they clutch the headrest of the passenger seat, forearms taut, and he mutters, "I want you," with enough gravel in his voice to rumble her bones. "Don't be stupid. That's not what this is."

Maka presses her hands into her lap and stares him down. There's her characteristic fearlessness, finally, returning to her in spades. "I just thought you'd want it a little more, I guess. You just gave in so easily, and we haven't even gotten past second base, a-and Blake-"

"Blake is a grubby asshole who doesn't know how to keep his fat mouth shut," Soul grunts, expression tight. It should not be as attractive as it is, but Maka can't help it, and she squirms where she sits. There is something to be said about such blatant passion etched into her cool guy's features, even if it isn't aimed at her - and certainly, there's also something to be said about Soul taking control over his own life, too, and speaking out for himself. It is half pride and half barely-docked desire that really presses Maka's palms into her lap.

Still, she must persevere, for the sake of their sex life. Perhaps their relationship, too. And the jealous part of her heart that can't seem to settle itself, no matter how deeply she trusts this special boy. "So… you do want to do it?"

He sighs, then leans his head against his own headrest. "I'm not dating you just to have sex with you, Maka-"

"So-"

"But," he cuts in, an angry red blush burning all the way to his ears, "when- _if-_ you're ready… I'm down. No rush. Don't really think I need to get you naked in order to prove that we love each other. I'm not gonna rush you into anything- it's not cool to force a girl, you know. Not cool at all."

.

Later, on the drive back to her place, Soul finally cracks.

"I didn't really come prepared," he blurts. From aside, Maka shoots him a glance over her shoulder. With a one-hand feel on the steering wheel, he rests his hand on her bare knee and looks effortlessly _cool,_ like she's sure he so desires. It's funny, really, that he exudes such _coolness_ in moments like these, where he's not really paying attention to things like body language and aggressive stone-facing.

Maka runs her fingers along his knuckles, traces the lines of his hand, circles his bony wrist. "Prepared?"

" _Condoms."_

The lamppost splays him with a spotlight, and finally, Maka can't stop herself from laughing, and he joins in, not a moment too soon. When composure returns, and she's back to memorizing the shape of his fingers and palm, he's smiling mindlessly, with such unpracticed, painless ease.

"Dummy," she says affectionately.

He gives a half shrug, and slides his hand away from her skin only to pull into her driveway. He burns goosebumps in his wake, each elongated stroke of his finger a scalding trail. "Kind of thought if it really came down to it, and you were ready, I could _improvise_ -'

A giggle bubbles in her chest. " _How?"_

The porch light flicks on, but Maka's unconcerned with her mother, lingering in the doorway, squinting into Soul's headlights. There's not a force in the world that could tear her eyes away from the way he licks his lips and then smiles at her, slow and steady. For a moment, she's wired tight, ready to blow, and suddenly that hand from before is on her knee again and it _means something_.

Improvise indeed. What a creative soul he is.

Maka leans over and presses her mouth to his, hands bunched up in the shoddily-buttoned flannel that encases him. He melts against her delightfully, fingers pressing into her knee with such delightful need, and ah, maybe driving her home had been a bad idea after all. Perhaps there is some merit to fooling around without actually going all the way and making things difficult for modest sensibilities.

If… they can even be called that. Is daydreaming about her boyfriend's head between her thighs really a _modest sensibility?_

 _Whatever._ When he smiles at her, it's sharp-toothed danger mixed with dedicated loyalty, and if her mother weren't staring them down, Maka might forget her skeletons in the closet long enough to see if maybe the second time's the charm. But for now, they're out of time, and she pecks his cheek once more before slipping out of his car and back into reality.

His eyes are hotter than any spotlight. She feels his stare right up until she shuts the front door behind her, and if her knees wobble, well, it's too dark for her bleary-eyed mother to make assumptions, anyway. Who has to know?


	8. stay (i missed you)

**1998**

.

Two days later, he improvises.

It started off innocently enough. They'd been in Soul's room, which probably could've been considered suggestive and perhaps even sexually charged, if Maka hadn't spent just as much time alone with him in it before they'd even started dating. His bed hadn't been made, clothes in crumpled piles on his floor, scribbled notes scattered along his nightstand - not exactly the picture of a shag pad, either - but regardless, in an hour, she finds herself with her legs spread and Soul between them, pressing a thoughtful kiss to her neck.

It all escalates so quickly. One moment, she's leaning her head on his shoulder, dressed in her favorite velvet dress and shirt combo, hair tied up in scrunchies, feeling cute and safe tucked up against him as she leisurely rereads her reading assignment, and the next Soul is rolling her over, eyes dark with something she can't read. Like a switch has been flicked, he's shoving her book off the side of the bed, demanding attention in ways he never has before.

"Ah!" she gasps, squirming beneath him. His hands are planted on either side of her face, and she's looking around his arms to try and catch a glance of her discarded homework. "What if you dented the spine-"

Like the needy cat he is, he grunts and lowers himself down to distract her mouth with his own. _Ah._ Well, complaining is hard when his tongue comes into play, that's for sure. To say she's spent too much time thinking (and obsessing, ugh) over his talented tongue is an understatement; he's so damn devious with it, whittling away her common sense just by greedily licking his way into her mouth and rendering her own tongue useless.

Stupid Soul. What's even gotten into him? Usually he's more composed than this - usually he's more _shy_ than this, nervously staring at her mouth for an indeterminate amount of time before taking to nibbling at her neck until she gets the hint. It's not often that he takes the lead like this, that he cages her to his bed with his arms and swallows her cries and gasps as he reduces her bones to aroused, useless putty.

"Mmmm," he hums, forehead pressed to hers. Their noses bump and Maka sucks in a breath.

"What," she starts, blinking rapidly. "What was that about?"

"Bad?"

"N-No, just… unexpected?" Is that the right way to put it? Out of nowhere? Uncharacteristic of her lazy, sleepy boyfriend, who seems more into holding her hand and occasionally sliding his hands into her back pockets while they hug than kissing, most days. "Where did all of that come from?"

He stares at her thoughtfully. He leans back, sitting lightly on her knees, palms gliding to her shoulders, instead. A finger slips beneath the spaghetti-strap of her dress, and Maka regrets wearing a shirt beneath it, even if it's a cute little number. She wants to feel skin on skin, wants to share the heat coiling inside of her with his, wants to melt away in the furnace that is his eyes. _Stupid, stupid Soul,_ she thinks again, and his way of making her feel dumb, too.

Then he licks his lips, and Maka can think of nothing else but that tongue and where it'd just been, how it'd just felt - a little even of where it could be, too, and here she is again, feeling overheated and fidgety beneath him. "You work too hard."

"You don't work hard enough," she replies cheekily.

He stares unblinkingly. Like stone. Runs the tip of his tongue along the seem of his lips again and renders her brainless. "... Wanna kiss you again," he mutters, and when she licks her lips, too, Maka watches the same hawk-like attention zero in. It's like staring into a mirror.

She wonders if he knows she hadn't bothered putting on a bra today. She wonders if he'll touch her, too, and if he'll discover such a fun little secret. Sure, she's not particularly bosomy, or shapely, but there's something about the way Soul stares at her that makes her feel like the most desirable girl in the world. Like it doesn't matter that her breasts are small, and her hips don't flare out like an hourglass, or her ass isn't thick and smackable - like he's more than happy with what she does have, tiny breasts and abs and strong thighs that could most certainly squash a man's skull, should she choose to do so.

Sometimes, she thinks he might want her to. Sometimes - now, perhaps - as he glides his hands over her, palms smoothing down the curve of her waist before smoothing over her thighs, working at the muscles that lay beneath her velvet skirt.

He backs off of her and she hides her face in her hands, moaning softly. Maka can't bear to watch the fabric slip down to her hips, can't watch the boring white cotton of her panties peek out - but, oh, she can feel everything, and the way he rubs his palms up each quivering thigh makes her want to squeeze her legs together and bury her face in his pillows.

Too much. And it's just the beginning. How can she ever dream to undress before him if she can't handle the sensuality of a few well-placed touches? She hears him mutter her name and she squeaks, trembling all over, feeling _soaked_ and stupid for him, mostly.

His thumb grazes the hem of her undies, the crease of her thigh, and she squeaks.

"Shhh," he shushes, hefting one leg around his waist as he scoots closer. "Wes is down the hall."

Wes will never let them live it down if he catches them messing around like this. Maka hiccups, nodding into the darkness, palms still tight to her eyes. If she looks, then this is really happening - witnessing it will paint her in a new light, will strip her of carefully maintained chastity… but to not look is almost worse, because without one sense, the rest are heightened. Every shift of his blanket is almost deafening, and when he says her name, Maka snaps to attention.

"Maka," he whispers, again and again, like a mantra. Maybe like a prayer. "Hey, Maka."

"Nnnnh."

"Is- this is okay, right? You're not-"

"We can't-" she chokes on her inhibitions and presses her head back into his pillows. None of this has felt even a little bit dangerous, and though her heart feels like it's about to leap out of her chest, it's not particularly bad. Just exciting, mostly. A little naughty, a lot rebellious. A bit of late teenage rebellion can't hurt her now that she's apparently an adult, right?

Maka sucks in a breath and then releases it slowly. Her legs spread further on their own accord, no matter how embarrassing, no matter how completely drenched she is before him - _because_ of him.

"... Not all the way," she says softly. Soul rubs his hands up her thighs again and Maka melts into his sheets. "I don't- I can't- but… this is good."

"A little more?" he asks, wonderment staining his tone. Her hands are still plastered over her eyes, but she can still sense the way his eyes rove over her in her heart, knows the absolutely predatory way he's probably undressing her with his eyes.

She's seen it before in him, once, while she was dressed as Baby Spice and he cupped her ass in his hands as she kissed him silly. He's not a robot, programmed only to tend to her needs. And she's not a robot either, mindless in her studies, built without urges and needs, too.

Sorry, Mama. But there are just some things that are out of her control. Her good little girl was bound to grow up sometime. And how can it be wrong, she wonders, when it all feels so right? When Soul makes her feel like a whole person, like she's got little wings budding in her chest, threatening to take flight? Maka's so tired of fighting it, so tired of pretending like she doesn't have these feelings.

"Yes," she says, very tenderly. "J-Just, um, we don't have a condom, s-so-"

Something brushes up against her and Maka is suddenly a live wire. _Ah._ She's always known his fingers were long, and strong, but- she's never felt anything but her _own_ touch there, rubbing that tender spot beneath worn white cotton, and even if it's just a taste of what's to come, she knows it's going to be something new entirely.

"I could improvise," Soul says, rubbing her so damn _slowly,_ touching and feeling everything through her damp, useless panties. Teasing her, he's teasing her, and- he's _still not done_ , and finds her clit within mere moments. "... if you'll look at me."

Maka whines piteously, writhing in his sheets. " _Soul."_

There's something interesting giving his voice texture, and he asks, " _Please?"_ like he never has before. How can she deny him anything? Maka peeks through the cracks of her fingers and she's never seen anything sweeter than Soul, looming over her. Soul, rubbing circles around her clothed clit, looking thoughtful and comfortable and more right than she can ever remember. There's not even a hint of that age-old kink in his brows. The only thing clouding up his eyes is a delightful, magnetic pull of lust, and Maka's hands find his sheets instead.

It's real. She's watching it happen, a witness.

_No,_ not a witness - _an active party._ Maka's guilty now, too, of _allowing_ a boy to touch her so, of enjoying such tender, adoring ministrations. To hell with it, she thinks. They're not going all the way yet, and if partaking in something lewd or unladylike makes her a bad person (or, worse, a _disappointing daughter_ ) well, that's just something her parents will have to deal with.

If they ever find out. No real reason to tell them she's been messing around with her _long-term boyfriend,_ anywho.

There are more important matters at hand. Like Soul's dexterous, talented fingers. Like Soul's damn tongue, that keeps wetting his distracting lips. God, she'd give anything to finally find out what that tongue feels like between her legs, and she's half mortified for even thinking such a thing. Up until him, she'd been such an uninterested, bored girl when it came to anything even remotely sexual. And aside from him, there's really not much else that can get her going like this.

But that _tongue._ Maka clenches his sheets and dips her head back, wordlessly moaning to his ceiling.

"Wes," he hisses again, a damning reminder.

But she wants to be vocal! She wants Soul to know what he does to her, what he makes her feel - he has to know he's good for more than just smoking pot and hiding away in his bedroom, doesn't he? He can single-handedly create such grand music. He can play her like a fine-tuned piano _so effortlessly_.

Caught in between the urge to sing his praises to the heavens and pinch her lips shut, lest she rouse the sleeping deviant down the hall, Maka bucks her hips. It's crude of her, an unpracticed motion, but it prompts Soul to slip beneath the thin fabric of her undergarments and _oh,_ she thinks. _This_ is what all of the buzz is about. This is what Liz and Tsubaki whisper and giggle about in the girl's room - this overwhelming coil, the tether that tightens around her throat as he slips in, knuckle-deep. It'll render her stupid if it continues.

How can she ever feel like herself again, if he has this power over her? If any boy - _anyone!_ \- can make her feel like this? There's just- there's _no way to put it into words_. It's not as intrusive as she'd been lead to believe. It's weird, and different, but - Soul's finger crooks within her curiously and she can't help the noise that he draws from her, high pitched and broken.

He looks at her with such burning urgency. Maka bites her lip and wills herself to keep a lock on it. Her heart has leapt into her throat, and with each mere graze of his finger, each slip of knuckle, she's blown a little more open, chiseled bit by bit, until the tether has become a noose and she can't breathe without him.

"Christ," he mutters, eyes darting from her face to his hands. It's like he's unable to keep himself from staring. "Maka, you're-"

" _Wes,"_ she hisses out.

Soul wastes no time in rolling her panties down her legs. His gawking is almost tangible, invisible hands stroking down the length of her legs as he tosses her underwear carelessly behind him. There's not even time to be embarrassed about being so naked before him - even if she's still in the rest of her clothes - because he's spreading her wide, scooting down, and even as Maka gasps and sits up suddenly, there's no more wondering about his tongue.

She falls back into his pillows with a _whumph_. Remaining vertical is just too hard.

_Difficult._ She can't- _hard_ is too suggestive, and Soul's- _is he?_

Her brain feels like mashed potatoes. Thinking is near impossible. Doing just about _anything_ is a task and a half when Soul's got her thighs hooked around his face and his mouth rendering her speechless. That damn tongue is hot, and sly, and circles just shy of where she aches.

And now she understands what he'd meant about being crushed by thighs. She wants to squeeze him in place, wants to keep him here forever, seated so neatly between her knees, but at the same time she doesn't want to hurt him. It's such a challenge, keeping herself at bay, and the only way she can think to sate the urge to grab him and pull and pull until she's full and panting beneath him is to tangle her hands in his hair. Soul, for his part, seems to have no issue with her doing as she pleases, because the moment she gives a particularly rough tug of his hair he groans.

Anyone else, and this would be mortifying. _Anyone else._ He's so noisy, and unusually vocal with his affection, but his tongue slips down and draws shapes onto her quivering, drenched flesh and makes her feel like there's a bomb about to go off in her chest.

The whole time he's got his eyes on her, like he just can't look away. The sun's setting, and his blinds cast latitude shadows, but his eyes are still wine-dark in the golden light. Attentive. Unraveling. Without such devoted darkness lurking in the depths of his eyes, though, how else can she appreciate his glow? There's one moment, a long, flat lick up her sopping core that fizzles her nerves, and when he finally returns to pay his respects to her clit, Maka breaks.

There is nothing in the world but Soul to hold her down, and he does, with one palm pressed warmly to her bucking hips and the other cradled securely beneath her ass. His hair is the only real, tangible thing left, and so she yanks as she comes, a quivering, trembling mess of a woman, a howl caught in her throat. _Wes,_ she thinks ruefully, Wes is _just down the hall_ while her world is being ripped apart and hastily pasted back together, and his devilish younger brother's tongue is coaxing her through the starburst. She has to stay _quiet,_ no matter what, no matter how mind-shatteringly good it is.

When he crawls his way back up her, Maka can't bear to do anything but kiss him. She's naked from the waist down, and he's hard in his jeans, pressing firm against her tummy, but the world might fall back apart if her arms aren't around him. He has to know how special this is, right? He has to know that he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, glowing nearly orange in the subdued light, hair wild - from her hands, _hers!_ It's too much. _He's_ too much.

"Ma-Maka," he rumbles, and she feels it deep in his chest, pressed tight to hers. There's not a force in the world that could keep her from touching him, from cradling his face in her hands, from smoothing her hands down the slope of his back and grasping his ass tight. "Mmh! That's- _hey-_ "

His tongue tastes funny. The wings within her spread fuller, feathers tickling her very soul, and Maka rushes in a, " _Your turn,"_ before the moment's gone stale and the fear sets back in.

.

She doesn't get any of the music mumbo-jumbo, but at least there's a kitten in her lap.

While Liz and Soul go back and forth with lyric ideas and harmonies and other things Maka can't contribute to, Blair nuzzles her tiny kitten face into Maka's palm. Delighted, for the time being, Maka scoops her to her chest and presses a kiss to a twitching, furry black ear, and neither band member pays her much attention. She's sitting criss-cross-applesauce on Soul's old Batman sheets, watching.

"I'm just saying," Liz says, for the fifth time since she'd barged her way in and interrupted Soul and Maka's cuddle slash study session (read: Soul's naptime), "Patty can scream pretty damn well. It's an asset I think we should keep in mind. With graduation coming up, we just gotta keep our options open, if we want to do anything with ourselves-"

"Liz," Soul interrupts dryly. "Sure. Whatever. We'll do whatever you think is right."

Maka peeks up from the bundle of fur and love in her arms. He looks strangely small, standing opposite Liz, despite being a good head taller than her. _Soul_ and _small_ are two things that haven't been synonymous since middle school.

Her dark lips twitch. "Don't whatever me, Evans. I don't know about you, but I don't want to just coast by. I can't. I don't exactly have money that I can fall back on."

The tension churns thickly, and Maka's stomach nearly drops as she catches the dip in Soul's shoulders. Like feasible, real weight has just been dropped on him, weighing him down, and he's nothing more than a sad-eyed pack mule. "Mmm," he hums noncommittally, rubbing idly at the back of his neck. A nervous tick, a tell, and then, "Don't think I'm going to be sticking around here after- don't really think I'll be graduating, 'nd the folks won't be, uh, keen on supporting me if I can't pull my shit together, so-"

It's like a damn bomb has gone off. Even Blair seems to sense the shift of mood, and she nestles herself closer to Maka's heart as Liz's razor-sharp stare softens to stale playdough instead. In the aftermath, all that remains is Soul, staring pointedly at the ceiling, hypothetical rubble at his feet.

"What?"

He shrugs tensely. "Skipped a lot, so-"

"You _have_ to graduate," Maka squeaks.

He peeks at her heartbreakingly. "It's cool," he says, but it's so obvious that he's lying, because there's a tightness to his voice that strangles her. "School's for chumps anyways. I have a band."

A band that he's not confident in. Suddenly, she feels sick, thinking of all the letters from assorted east-coast colleges littering her mailbox. Who is she to complain about an overstuffed course load, when her boyfriend isn't even passing his classes? Selfish, selfish girl, so caught up in her own studies and planning for her own future that she hadn't even noticed him crumbling beside her. What else has she missed along the way? Just how long has she had her head up her own ass?

Even Blair can't sugarcoat this one. She sets the kitten down in her lap and bites her lip to keep herself from word-vomiting. He doesn't prefer lectures, but it's sort of engraved into her bones to nag a little; it's for the greater good, can't he see that? She does it because she cares about him. She wants him to succeed, too.

The guy can't even face her directly. He's clouding over, ducking back into that ashamed, nervous fog that'd shrouded him for so many months before they'd started kissing each other good morning and nearly fucking each other good night.

"But…" she begins, in a tiny, crumpled voice that gains traction the longer she watches him fade. "... But you have to graduate, Soul. This affects everything, you know? Even if you don't want to go to college, a high school degree is still something worth having! You'll need it to get a job, a-and-"

"Don't need a diploma to play music," he says tonelessly.

"Do you even want to play music, or are you just settling for the easy path?"

Ah. There he goes. There's a spark of life in him just yet. Perhaps she's said too much, or perhaps she's taken a step too far - picking at his insecurities has always been a dangerous game, one she has never really prided herself in - but it's excellent at getting him to finally take a stand and feel something. They've always been good at fighting. For the longest time, before the honeymoon phase they'd both tripped into, post kiss-haze, bickering had been the only way they knew how to get their feelings out.

And boy, do they both have a lot of feelings. Soul, especially, despite the chill, stoned ease he tries to drown himself in. There are just some things he can't run away from, and this - his rapidly approaching future, post-high school (post Maka, even?) is one of them.

Because of course she wants to be with him forever. She wants to make it work. Knows, in the end, it will take a lot of effort, and high school romances rarely last into college and so forth, but it's Soul, and how can she ever willingly give him up? Despite his lack of drive, lately, and despite the way he can't look her in the eyes as he admits his failures, he's still something worth treasuring. He's still a boy who makes her feel like she's something, a special something, even if he has his own issues to work through. What kind of girlfriend - or friend, even - just leaves him to scramble?

His lips pull tight. "Should be asking you the same question. How's med school sounding, Maka?"

"Med school isn't easy!" she gasps, affronted. "And this isn't about me, this is about you! I thought you stopped skipping all the time. You told me you were attending more classes, Soul! That was part of the deal."

Maka hates the way the guilt drags him even lower. His body is made of stones and concrete, and soon he'll be dragged down too much to ever pull himself out. "Shit happens," he grits out, and Liz looks nervously at the door, as if maybe she feels as though she's intruding on something. "Sorry, I can't be as perfect as you are."

That's just not true. Maka Albarn is not perfect, and if anyone knew that, it would be Soul. Nobody spends more time with her. Nobody else is privy to such private, sensitive information on her life, and the echoes of slammed doors and whispered-screams motivate her to tug on her pigtails and catch the cry in her throat.

"You're so- ugh!" Do not nag. She's not his mother, and it's not her place to barge her way into his life and parent him - she's his girlfriend, though, and she will not baby him or use kid-gloves when dealing with him. If his own mother is too busy endorsing her older son's music and mingling at country clubs, well, someone has to help this stressed, maddened boy out. Maka braces herself for impact, looks directly at his fingers, pulling at the hem of his shirt, and says, "I can help you pass. Teachers like me, and I have connections…"

His stare darkens, and she's afraid he'll never look anywhere but his shoes again. "Pity, Maka. Nice."

"Not pity! You- _I love you,_ you jerk!" she spits out. "And I'm not going to leave you up creek without a paddle if I can help it! You should have just as much a fighting chance as anyone else at a job after high school, and I don't- I don't think you want to be living on the streets and playing for spare change either, huh?!"

That sobers him pretty quickly. The fighting spirit drains from his body, thick like sludge, and the only thing that remains is a frowning, legarthic boy. Liz waffles at the door, unsure, and Maka swallows thickly and wills herself not to go on and spill the rest of her beans.

Doesn't he want a future with her, too? Doesn't he want to make this work? Because being with him - and the things they've done together - it means something to her. A big, _big_ something.

"Whatever," he grunts. When he merely tilts his head in Liz's direction, she reaches for the door and swings it open. "We can talk later."

"Uh," she says, "yeah. Later. Nice, uh, talking to you two."

She's gone before Maka can say goodbye. From her lap, Blair mews, as if she can sense the discomfort in the room. Down the hall, Maka can hear Wes, probably politely flattering the fleeing Thompson girl.

_What a mess._ Is this what trouble in paradise feels like? Shoot, is this why Soul had such a mood change when she'd been studying with him a few days ago? It's entirely plausible that Maka isn't the only one fretting over the oncoming deadline of change, of graduation, only months away. Of college, and moving out, and saying goodbye to their parents, no matter how strained and weird the relationship between them may be. In becoming functioning, responsible adults, too.

In Soul, knowing how to talk to people without crawling into himself and hiding away.

He melts bonelessly into his bed beside her. Doesn't touch her, though. Soul seems to be making a conscious effort not to initiate physical contact, and buries his face so securely into his pillows that reading his expression is impossible. Nirvana's still playing in the background, quiet and staticy from his headphones around his neck, but he doesn't even seem to be paying attention to it.

His fingers are twitchy, though. He's fifty shades of jumpy, and jittery, and every other adjective for this jumbled mood he's worked himself into.

Maka stares at his shoulders. "Soul."

"Mmh."

"... Do you want me to go?"

He doesn't reply.

No _yes_ means _no,_ though, so Maka swings her feet off of the bed and places Blair neatly beside him. Maka may not be bold enough to shove her way into his personal space and demand answers, but Blair is surely nosy enough to wiggle her way in and demand snuggles. The cat has a get out of jail free card, though, and Soul lifts his wrist just enough for the black cat to slink her way in, greedily soaking up his body heat.

"I love you," she says softly.

Maka gets a glimpse of red peeking up at her. She thinks she hears, "You too," but it's muffled in his bedding.

.

It's awkward.

She tries not to be mad about it, but it's hard not to be. He'd lied to her, even just a little bit. Soul hadn't skipped _that_ much class before they'd gotten together this year. It had been only September, after all. Not enough to ruin his chances of graduating, especially since their school year is divided up into _semesters_. She can't exactly monitor him when he's in base-level classes and she's cranking her way through a full, AP-level, college-prep schedule, compliments of her academically driven Mama and overzealous Papa.

Besides, she shouldn't have to monitor him. He should just go to class, right? He should be where he's been telling her he is, and not skipping class to smoke in the bathroom or… wherever he goes when he's not in school. It's not like he could've gone that far at all. They always ride home from school together, and he doesn't always smell like pot, so it's not like he's just running off to get high or something irritating like that.

Insecurity prickles at her. Where has he been going? Who has he been hanging out with, if not her? Even Liz had seemed surprised that he was unsure he'd be passing this year, so it couldn't be her.

Jealousy is a dark, dark mistress. He wouldn't… be seeing other people, would he? No, there's no way! Soul would never be the type of guy to see other people. _Cool guys don't cheat,_ he'd said once, looking stupidly pretty with a cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke coiling around him, seeping through his dainty lips. And true to his word, she's never even seen him look at another girl when she's with him. When it's the two of them, there's no one else in the world worth his time. It's Maka or it's nothing.

But... but still, she can't help but wonder _what if_. Has he grown bored, and he's just not sure how to break it to her? Is her inability to be an adult and sleep with him finally wearing him down?

Maka clenches her books tighter to her chest. Not a chance, no _way_. She might be woefully insecure, and her examples of committed romance might be more than a little flawed, but she does trust Soul, and he wouldn't- he couldn't! How could that boy ever hope to cheat on her, even if he wanted to, if he can't talk to people? Lately, when they've gone out, he's hovered a little closer to her than usual, held her hand tightly in his as they'd approached the counter or their server set their silverware down. Social interaction has been hard on him lately. He couldn't be fucking somebody else. He can't even _talk_ to somebody else.

The whole thing is so frustrating. And, okay, sure, maybe she overreacted a little, but he'd lied! Only a little bit, but he had! And graduating is important, especially to her; not passing isn't even an option. Heck, anything less than a ritzy, impressive college and a fat scholarship isn't an option for her, either. Soul has well-off parents and a last name that could get him anywhere, should he choose to embrace it. Maka has nothing but her determination and overstuffed brain.

So yes, it's awkward between them, to say the least. It's why she's walking home today instead of bumming a ride off of her tight-lipped boyfriend. The fresh air helps a little, at least, and even if it's a little cooler in January, it's still Death City, Nevada, and nothing her desert heart can't handle. At least she'd thought to wear better walking shoes today. Browned grass crumples beneath the heavy steps of her boots as she crosses Blake's yard and into her own.

She looks up from her feet. Her front door slams shut. Mama storms out, bag in hand. Papa tears the screen door open and grabs her arm.

Everything moves in slow motion. They're screaming, throats tight with strain, veins bulging, but Maka can't hear anything. It's like tunnel vision has set in and everything's a bit darker except for her Mama's hand, clenched tight around a pregnant duffel back. There are some papers in Papa's hands, and he keeps waving them around while raving like a madman, and - are those tears glittering in his eyes?

White noise crackles in her ears.

Slowly, though, the world melts back into place, oversaturated and violent in the sun. Papa's hair burns just a little too red as he rushes his way down the driveway after his wife. Mama yanks the car door open and doesn't even spare Maka a glance over her shoulder before literally ripping her wedding ring off of her finger and flinging it at him. And then, all at once, Maka knows this is not just another fight. This is _it._

Time ticks away, finally, but her legs are heavy and can't move fast enough. Papa's sobbing face isn't enough to make Mama stay, so why should Maka's? She wants to scream, wants to shout, "Wait!" while the car door is still open and the second hasn't slipped away, but the slam shakes her to her core and her knees wobble like a toddler's.

She stands, frozen, books tight to her quivering heart as her mother's car pulls out of the driveway and speeds down the road, and the only thing left is the smell of the exhaust and Papa, alone, holding a diamond ring in one hand and a broken marriage in the other. With no room left to hold his heart, Maka wonders if he'd ever had one at all. Or, perhaps, if it just left with Mama, blazing through the neighborhood like a bat out of hell, past a stop sign and oozing into the bright, nearly liquid light of the horizon.

And, like mother like daughter, Maka doesn't even think. She just runs.


	9. 2 become 1

**1998**

.

Home has never felt less like _home._

Without Mama - without tension - it's like the space is alien to her. Because, sure, there have been several moments where Maka had wished for a less stressful family, for parents that didn't bicker and use passive aggression to guilt one another into reading their only daughter bedtime stories, but never once had she ever wanted for her mom and dad to _split up_. With only one parent in residence - and the wayward, skirt-chasing one at that - her childhood home is almost a graveyard, unnervingly eerie. _Quiet,_ to say the least.

She doesn't like it. Papa's certainly been trying, but it seems he's still set in his ways. There are mornings where Maka is left waking in an empty house, with a box of donuts on the table and no note left behind. And while she chews idly on a stale glazed donut, she wonders who her father is with, which pretty, sweet-smelling woman he's drowning his guilt in today, and if he thinks it's worth losing the stability of his family over.

If a pair of tits is more important than his frazzled teenage daughter.

Maka crushes the crusty donut in her hand and drops it in the trash. _Asshole._ Grubby good for nothing Papa. _Jerk._ Who does he think he is, going around and ruining everything? Chasing Mama away?

The whole thing is so awkward. Being home isn't comforting. Literally fleeing the scene and crying on a very stoned Soul's shoulder had been as cathartic as it was embarrassing - he'd had enough coherence to stroke back her hair and kiss her forehead, but still, there'd been a hazy, dazed sort of lull in his attention. And so shortly after their fight, too! Who is she, running into a man's arms for comfort, when her gross Papa had ruined his marriage and scared Mama away?

Maka thinks to check the voicemail on the landline once before hurrying on her way to school. The disappointing sting of an empty mailbox haunts her until the final bell.

.

Needless to say, she's mostly forgiven Soul.

What he does in his free time is none of her business, really. As long as he's not actively cheating on her - or breaking the law (then again, he is probably smoking pot, so perhaps she reassess this particular bullet point in her journal) - then there's nothing she can do to stop him. In the end, the most she can do for him is to offer her assistance and lend a listening ear for his troubles. A good girlfriend would be there for him in his time of need. A good friend would be there for him, even.

And if she can't be a daughter worth staying with, then dammit, she'll be a girlfriend worth loving.

"Well," greets Wes, smiling down at her. The front door swings open and Soul's older brother leans a hand on the upper door frame. "If it isn't my future sister-in-law."

On any other day, she might be more willing to blush politely through Wes' antics, but calc was rough and Papa tried groveling at her feet in the school parking lot this morning, so Maka's shenanigans tolerance is at an all time low. Still, though, it would be rude to downright snarl at Wes, especially since he often means no harm, so Maka tries willing the corners of her lips into a smile and hugs her books to her chest. She's not Soul, after all. Needlessly growling at people and flipping her head aside dramatically won't solve her problems. Avoiding eye contact will not will Wes Evans and his affectionate ribbing away.

He leans to the side and allows her entry. Maka shuffles by him and waits for the click of the door to sigh. "Is he upstairs?"

Wes hums. "Isn't he always? Your fair maiden is hiding away in his tower, brave knight."

His room has heavy curtains, dark posters and crumpled balls of paper littering the floor - it looks nothing like a fairy tale tower and everything like a dungeon, maybe even a graveyard. It's certainly quiet enough.

She has half a mind to march up there and shake out his old blankets. Make his bed, too, and maybe even scrub down his walls while she's at it. Fresh spring cleaning. Something she'll have some real control over, wiping away years worth of collected grime and dust from Soul's tomb on her hands and knees. There's still a fight in her, clawing its way through her chest, louder than any heartbeat, and if this is the only battle she's got left, then gosh darn it, she'll give it her all. He's still worth it. He'll always be worth it.

Solemnly, she eyes Wes. "How's he doing?"

He presses a finger to his lips. "I think he played our dearest nanny for a fool in order to stay home from school."

Yeah, she didn't really think he was very sick. His brain might be foggy, but it's got nothing to do with any physical ailment. "I see," she sighs wearily, shooting glances at the stairway, as if Soul might actually appear. Not likely. She'll find him buried beneath his blankets, curtains closed, not quite asleep but certainly not actually _awake_ , no doubt about it.

"His attendance isn't spectacular, so I hear."

Maka exhales. "It's bad. I just…" Don't understand him? Don't know what to do? Don't know why he's doing this to himself, why he spends all excess energy treating her like she's made of spun glass?

"... Maka," Wes says, just as she turns to slip down the hall and up the stairway. "He might not be very talkative when you get up there."

"I know."

There's the sound of him shuffling behind her, and then his hand sits on her shoulder, warm and heavy in solidarity. She can't just go into battle without armor, after all. That would be suicide.

"He's trying," Wes says, very quietly. "Go easy on him."

Handling Soul with kid gloves won't solve his problems. Raising her voice at him, though, will only make matters worse. He flinches at loud noises, slinks back into his cocoon of blankets like a turtle retreating into his shell. She's not prepared to help him trudge through the demons lurking in the dark or the monsters under his bed. All she's armed with is a few math textbooks and history notes, as if focusing on the academics will be able to distract him from an expectant father and a materialistic mother.

If it can get him to pass his senior year of high school, Maka will consider it a success. Studies, note cards, algorithms - they're about the only things Maka feels proficient in. Cold, hard facts, things that can be memorized and recited back on paper for a grade, high test scores. Fat scholarships. It's about all she can offer him in comfort.

It's the only coping method she's ever known.

Sharing is caring. Maka swallows her fears and marches up the stairs, her boots heavy on the hardwood flooring. Each step echoes down the hall, each wall lined with ritsy, staged family portraits. Men, with Wes' strong jaw, Soul's pretty nose, their father's stern eyes stare back at her. No wonder Soul's so tied up in his insecurities, she thinks as she trails down the path to his bedroom. How's any boy supposed to grow up without stage fright if his life is lined with watchful, judgemental eyes?

She just hopes she won't find a corpse behind his closed door. The floorboards creak as she steps forward and knocks.

Once, twice.

A third time finally yields results, and Soul grumbles, "Go away." His voice is thick with exhaustion and a familiar something else, something she's never been able to pinpoint by name but has been clouding over him for the better half of a year. Even through everything they've done together - and it's a lot, just about everything except for outright penetration (blush, fidget, stupid _immature girl_ ) - the spell hasn't been broken over him. If anything, it's gotten worse.

Maka swallows thickly. Clears her throat. "It's me. I brought your homework?"

Radio silence. So much so that she can hear his boxspring complaining beneath his weight as he rolls over. That one squeaky floorboard under her foot squeals again.

"Can I come in?"

"Mmn."

It's… not a no, so Maka swings the door open and mentally prepares for the worst. It's dim in the afternoon, curtains predictably pulled shut, daylight banished.

Children are normally afraid of the dark and things that go bump in the night; Maka wonders if Soul's grown up enough to fear the harsh, prying light of day, and if he's resolved to become nocturnal, now. If maybe he feels more comfortable being a _thing that goes bump in the night_ , and if maybe they'd all been wrong about those so-called monsters for so long. She thinks there's a possibility that they're just misunderstood, lost spirits, aimlessly lurking without a goal. Certainly not malicious.

Just confused. _Hurt._ More than a little bit rebellious, too, but still glowing from the inside out, their golden hearts thumping steadily, a palpable pulse.

Her neglected, anguished Soul doesn't even peek out from his burial grounds. Merely shifts, white hair looking tattered and knotted amidst the dark shades of his pillows.

She approaches cautiously, as if making her way over to a skittish cat. No sudden movements, hands amiable, eyes soft. Even if he can't see her - even if he's stoned, bleary eyed and practically drooling as he stares into the tangled pit of his sheets and blankets, headphones tight over his ears - he can still sense her, in that uncanny, Soul Evans sort of way. He always just sort of _knows_ when she's around, wise eyes able to pick her out of a crowd with nothing more than the tip of a fluttering pigtail or boot-clad ankle. Knows, too, the scent of her perfume (a simple, no-nonsense floral scent) and reaches for her impulsively, palm spread open.

And it sort of breaks her heart, in a way, when he doesn't automatically roll over to greet her. She's become too accustomed to this patchwork sort of inseparability they've had going on for the past however many years. For the first time, as she hugs notebooks and study guides to her chest, she realizes that maybe this whole thing isn't just in her head, so notorious for overthinking and overanalyzing. Maybe it's been an issue for Soul, too, and she'd simply overlooked him.

Shitty. She's so _shitty._ She can't even make her own boyfriend happy. Can't make her family stay glued together, either.

"Hey," she says, very softly. The lump in the center of his bed breathes, in and out, heavy like a stone. "I brought stuff."

Silence. Maka sets her things on his nightstand and carefully sits on the edge of his bed. She reaches out and slides her hand along what she assumes is the curve of his back, sloping spine and arched shoulders. Or could it be his stomach? And maybe his arms, outlined beneath the thick fleece? It's hard to say.

"... I'll leave it here? In case you feel better and want to study a little. I tried to make it easy to take in. Lots of bullet points."

Outside, a car whizzes by. Her boyfriend barely even moves.

 _I love you_ gets caught in her throat. _Apologies,_ too, burn her tongue, caught behind her lips, and it's all she can do to lean over, smooth his willy bangs back and press a soft kiss to his hairline. "Sleep it off," is what she ends up saying instead, as if she didn't already know that he's not really sick in the traditional sense of the word. His weary bones and legarthic, lazy breathing are symptoms of an illness written in his aching soul. One she almost knows but cannot diagnose, not well.

He's a stranger, tangled up in these sheets. A boy with nightmares behind his fluttering eyelids and heart locked up tight.

.

Slowly, gradually, Soul comes around.

He doesn't truly pull out. And she doesn't expect him to, not while Wes fills their house with beautiful, practiced music and his mother cries proudly on his shoulder. Still, though, he does begin warming back up to his old self, jittery fingers pulling at the hem of his sleeves and eyes buried beneath hardened magma, crackling rock. When he holds her hand, his hands are clammy, and Maka kisses each knuckle with quiet determination melting away thoughts of Mama's absence and Papa's philandering.

He's just lifeless in the way he moves, like there are strings attached to his limbs and he is merely puppeting through everyday life, going through the motions. If life is a stage, then his fright is binding, and Soul's self is locked up tight in that mask he buries himself behind, as if it might shield him from the spotlight.

 _He's trying,_ Wes had said.

Soul braids her hair with shaking, anxious hands. _He's trying_ _ **for you,**_ Wes had wanted to say. Each braid gets tied off with an old, stretched scrunchie, and it slaps her in the shoulder as Soul smoothes away stray strands of dishwater blonde to kiss the base of her neck. Bare skin, freckled skin, often pink with sunburn now warming with the heat of something else, something deeper, and Maka presses her hands to her lap and stares at the wooden walls of their treehouse.

"Done," he mutters, lips still pressed to her skin. He's only a breath away from a tender earlobe, and Maka wishes he'd take it between his teeth and nibble, just a little. Wishes his hands would press down the shape of her hips and around her stomach and cup the budding heat that's begun cooking her.

 _Touch me,_ her bones whisper. It echoes through her, makes her fingers itch and her cheeks bright. It's been so long, and though Maka doesn't think of herself as a particularly sexual creature - or even needy, at that - she still misses the way he'd made her feel. In only a month, graduation will be upon them, and she'll be so busy preparing her speeches, and packing up her room for college over the summer, and-

He dips lower, kissing the delicate curve of her neck. She trembles, lashes fluttering, heart leaping in her chest.

_Touch me._

"S- _Soul,_ " she chokes out. Her tongue feels thick and clumsy and words are unusually hard for her - Maka, who swears by her pocket dictionary, who scribbles down pretty phrases and cold-hard facts in the margins of her diary, next to daydreams and college prep.

He hums. She slips back, greedily soaking up the heat of his chest, the way he presses his lips higher, kissing the side of her face, her temple. Those nervous, pretty hands press themselves to her thighs and Maka quivers beneath him. For once, _she's_ the one shaking.

(Or maybe she's just joined in, and now she can't tell up from down, caught up in his frenzied melody.)

Not looking at him is too much. She wiggles in his lap, legs wrapped around his hips, pushing, _pushing,_ and his mouth is hot. His tongue slides greedily against hers, and for the first time in months, she feels his old spark, the old whipcrack of his banter, his sharp wit in the way he kisses her. Like he's finally awake again in this ballooning moment of time, holding onto her hips so tightly that she's sure she'll bruise.

She'll wear each purpling mark with pride. Let it be proof that, even now, he still wants her. Even now, with the future breathing down their necks and no clue if things will really work out in the end, Soul still wants her. The plastic bag in the corner of the room is a deafening reminder, because months ago, before Soul's darkness had taken him hostage, they'd thought to buy condoms.

 _Condoms._ Her mouth can't form the shape of the word while his tongue is mesmerizing her. She's on her back before she knows it, the old comforter minimal padding at best. It's cold in the early spring, but the fire written clearly on Soul's face could keep her warm for days. As it is, her mouth feels dry already, and she reaches for him, tugging the collar of his shirt down to reach his lips again, just chapped enough for her to bite and ground herself with.

 _Touch me_ becomes _love me_. _Love me and stay with me always. Take this part of me and give me part of you, too_.

He might be a barely banked inferno, but Soul still takes his time, touching and feeling everything. He's a man of the senses, trailing a single, talented finger down between her small breasts, tracing her sternum, right until the cut of her shirt blocks him from her skin. He blinks once and she blinks twice, wordless conversation, and Maka's only a little embarrassed as he helps her out of her clothes.

 _You, too,_ she says with her eyes, tugging on his belt loops. She's topless, and his fingers are hooked into the lace trim of her panties, and it's only fair if he's as vulnerable and bare as she is, right? It's only fair if he's nothing but skin and his soul, too, so that she can feel him breathe beneath her. Feel his heartbeat against her chest and remind herself that he's alive, despite the tomb in which he lives, despite the lifeless way he'd followed her finger across the page and studied algebra.

And he does. Shyly, eventually, he grabs his shirt by his collar and rips it over his head. He's not built the way Blake or Free is, but none of that has ever mattered to her. His skinny hips and the v of his waist is more than enough, and his bare skin hugged to hers as he grinds into her is almost more than she can take. The friction is nearly enough to spark a flame - there's something brewing between her legs, molten and lava and - god, she's so wet. And the way he kisses her neck as he slips his fingers down to test the waters is damp, too.

His tongue. His _tongue._

"Please," she whimpers, squirming all around. She just can't sit still, not while he's inside of her in any capacity, touching that spot within her no one else has ever been. She could cry, but- but- "Your pants, Soul. _Please._ "

He grunts and bucks against her trembling thigh. He's so hard beneath those jeans of his, and she might beg, if he didn't shortly loosen his belt and shove his pants down to his knees. And ah, ah, without the restricting demin she can feel him better. He's steel, concrete, so firm against the give of her thigh, and she can't help it, Maka has always been a hands-on learner.

(What a lie. She's an everything learner. _Perverted girl_.)

His jaw goes slack as she cups him in her palms. His mouth is a hot, wet patch on her throat, his teeth prickling the tender place where her skin is thin, and surely he can feel the way she swallows thickly. She wants him naked, too. There is no fear of pain, no fear of rejection, just a burning need to have him inside her.

Close. She wants him close, close enough to fuse their bones together and feel his heartbeat bounce off of hers and become one, even just for a few pulse-thundering moments. Who cares if it's her first time, and school had suggested she might bleed, that it might hurt - it's Soul, and for him, she's willing to give it all. He leans back and looks at her and his eyes haven't been clearer in weeks.

"Condom," he chokes out, grappling for the plastic bag. Any moment where he's not touching her is wasted, and Maka grinds herself shamelessly against his erection, head leaned back, sobbing his name. " _Shit-_ "

He fits so neatly. Without his boxers, he'd be _inside_ of her, and such a blatant urge to be filled is strange, foreign. Like he's the missing piece to her puzzle.

Eventually, though, Soul figures out how to use his hands and rips the box open, tears open the little package containing their treasure. He wiggles his way out of his underwear and Maka stares openly, the air between them thick and heady. Soul blushes beneath her watchful stare, stretching out the condom and hissing as he begins slipping into it.

"D-Does it hurt?" she finds herself asking.

Soul's lips pinch together. "'Ts cold," he grunts, and ever the helpful know-it-all, Maka leans to lend a helping hand.

His flesh is hot, and when she begins helping him roll the latex down to the base of his cock he hums a little, a soft _mmmm_ that vibrates through her entire chest and sinks deep into that coiling heat, just below her tummy. It can't still hurt, not while he's making pleased noises like that, not while he's got a hand on hers and leads her through stroking him.

Short breaths. Maka tumbles back, and Soul holds himself steady in one hand and grasps her leg in another, hooking it around his narrow hips. She squeezes her eyes shut and prepares herself for the pain.

Except- it's _not._

Uncomfortable, sure, at first. And strange, because aside from her own fingers - and Soul's, and his tongue, she thinks, blushing bashfully - she's never had anything inside of her like this. It's not as _bendy_ as a finger, no knuckles, no carefully clipped nails accidentally catching parts of her and turning her off. It's thick, and it's warm, and hard, and - she chokes on the feeling of him filling her further, wondering when she'll have finally taken him all, wondering how much more there could possibly be.

He cups her cheek in his hand. "Maka."

"Is- _blood,_ " she cries uselessly, hooking her legs tighter around him. "Stop, _stop._ "

He does. Faithfully, he stops, even as he twitches within her. " _Maka,_ " he says again, those scalding eyes caressing her as he trails down her bare body. "There's no- you're not _bleeding,_ Maka," he mumbles.

"But, I thought?" _Hymens!_ she thinks passionately. Something was supposed to break, wasn't it? She's a virgin. Or… had been a virgin, until moments go, when Soul had found his way into her heart and her body and broken something. _Or had he?_

Soul kisses her soundly at that. It's wet, and a little gross, but Maka's hands find his hair and tangle up in it anyway. And when she whispers, " _Go,"_ against his lips, he's still bound to her word. There is no sharp pain, no ripping, no point in which she feels that sex is unbearable and intrusive. Nothing tears, and apparently nothing bleeds - so that sticky wetness between her thighs must be something else. She blushes, presses her hot, burning cheek to his and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

He goes. And goes. And - _oh_ \- **goes,** until she's whimpering beneath him, because even if it's not as good as his tongue it's still _intimate_. Soul gasps her name over and over, like a prayer, perhaps, and holds her tighter, still plummeting into her. Her palms spread flat over the plains of his shoulders and she tries to map out the flexing muscles beneath, memorize them, as his pace breaks.

His voice is low as he comes. Low, and textured with his exhaustion, and his passion, and the way it crackles toward the end makes her want to cry and come, too. Feeling it happen for him - even with a condom between them - it's still magical, still feels important, and his bones thaw beneath her hands as he flops onto her.

"Phh," he huffs, then kisses her neck. "Your eyelashes tickle."

"Sorry," she says, feeling silly and exposed and ready to burst.

His palm burns down the slender curve of her waist, and without even missing a beat, there are fingers again, a warm thumb rubbing slow circles around her sensitive clit, and not even minutes later, Soul's carried her over the edge, too.

.

Maka thinks adulthood is overrated. She doesn't feel any different without her virginity. She doesn't feel any more adult, sitting there swaddled in Soul's worn flannel, watching him tune his guitar, butt naked.

Whatever's been eating him seems to have dissipated for the time being. Sure, he blushes prettily beneath her sweeping gaze, as she can't help but admire certain parts of him, but he doesn't shy away from her. Just sets his guitar on his lap, blocking her from gawking girlishly at certain forbidden, curious parts of his anatomy, and begins strumming, staring thoughtfully at her bare chest, the way his oversized, unbuttoned shirt keeps slipping off of her.

And it's her turn to blush. Maka struggles to tug the fabric back over her slim shoulder. "Don't stare," she says, pouting.

He manages a half-smile, eyes still dazed and distracted. "You stared," he retorts, then strums, braving his gaze up the pale line of her torso. Her neck, then, where hickies must be blooming, judging by the pleased lilt in his brow. "You kept staring, too."

"I've never seen one before."

"And I've seen lots of tits?"

Maka huffs. Hugs the fabric to her chest. "I've seen those porn magazines beneath your mattress."

He bites his lip and plucks at a string. Pathetically, Maka lets her eyes dip down, again, catching a brief glance at the trail of pale hair that leads to parts unmentionable. "They're Star's."

"Sure."

"I have better taste," he says slowly, meaningfully. He catches her gaze and holds it, more fearlessly than he has in such a long time. Maka might cry if he hadn't lulled her back into such a curious, strange sense of arousal. "'Sides, a picture's not the same as the real thing," he admits further, voice dipping. "Not as cute."

"Soul," she whines, bundling herself up further. The last thing she wants to be is cute after sleeping with her boyfriend for the first time. Sexy, maybe. Desirable. Capable of rocking his world with her slender hips and abs and tiny breasts.

But still, he just smiles at her the same, strumming away, pausing in his teasing to hum a chorus she thinks she might know. "Cute's not bad," he admits. "I like cute."

"Ugh!"

" _Candle light and soul forever_ ," he sings suddenly, and Maka's lips glue shut. " _A dream of you and me together_."

She _does_ know this song. She's spent weeks, months, humming along to it on the radio in Tsubaki's passenger seat. Mouthing along to the words at Blake's Halloween party while in costume. Nothing she would have ever expected to come out of Soul's mouth - entitled, pretentious little music snob he is, with his high-profile jazz tastes and grungy, devil-may-care appearance.

Maka presses her hands to her face and giggles out an elated gasp. His smile only widens, and he shakes his head, clearly trying to replace it with an apathetic snarl. But he can't, not while he wears nothing at all, not while he bares his soul to her so blatantly. Whether he knows it or not, he's blown wide open for her, his knees pale and lips pink and swollen from biting. And when he sings, " _Say you believe it, say you believe it,_ " she can't help but crawl her way over, laying down on her tummy, cradling her chin in her hands as she watches him play, legs kicking daintily behind her.

"I can't believe you know this song," she whispers.

"Everyone in the English speaking world knows this song," Soul scoffs, still strumming, still humming.

"But you know how to play it!"

That gets him to blush. _Caught!_ Maybe he hasn't just been studying up on academics - maybe he's spent his alone time studying up on her music, too. _For her,_ he'd swallowed his tastes and learned her cookie-cutter pop, embraced girl power in its ripest form and learned how to play a sappy song about having sex for the first time for her.

She blinks, so completely enamored that it's hard to breathe. Soul strums. Maka parts her lips and blurts, "I love you so much."

It appears he can blush deeper. Poor Soul. He might never be the growling, eye-rolling badboy he so strives to be ever again, not while she's around, pouring herself on thick. He keeps playing, lips pursed, knees wobbling beneath her palms as she reaches out to touch him. She slides up, hands tracing his shape, sleek arms and smooth skin, his stubbly cheek, his soft lips.

Kissing him will never get old. Her heart feels fuller as she tastes him again, as his hands go limp and reach for her instead of his instrument. He slips beneath the flannel, holding her by her bare sides, fingers splayed possessively along the silk arches of her ribs. His attention breaks so easily now, caught up in touching her, cradling her, tipping her neck back to better slant himself over her and swallow her fears.

Adulthood isn't so bad after all.

For now, it's okay. For now, as long as Soul's right there, leading her back onto her back, shoving his old acoustic guitar out of his way, she'll be okay. Because maybe she doesn't have to brave this alone after all - maybe, maybe it'll be okay for her to lean on him, too. Depending on other people doesn't have to be so scary.

He pulls his shirt apart and dips to kiss the swell of her breast. _Free your mind of doubt and danger. Be real, don't be a stranger._ He's not singing anymore but she still hears the lyrics, thrumming in the back of her mind as his mouth finds her taut nipple, rendering her wordless and stupid, liquid heat beneath him, boneless and wonderful.

_We can achieve it, we can achieve it._

She latches onto him and refuses to let go. She just can't; he's got a way about him that makes her want to fall deep, and for once, she's not very good at keeping afloat. Just this once - just for him - she'll let someone else lead.


	10. linger

**1998**

.

Graduation comes and goes with the season.

Seasons have been _flying by,_ Maka thinks, exhausted. It seems like just yesterday it had been the beginning of Fall, and she'd been tripping over herself trying to gather her heart back into her chest and not leap into Soul's unwitting hands. But now here she is, mid June, sitting in her bedroom in a loose summer dress, cords and sashes laid out on her bedding, cap plopped into her lap. To _think,_ so much time and effort had been put into that moment, and for what - a smoldering, nearly-summer night in the desert sun, giving a speech in front of her graduating class and hundreds of parents and siblings alike - to her damp-eyed Papa and uncle Stein, her mother AWOL.

Such lead up to a whole lot of nothing. She should feel more accomplished than she does. Because she's graduated, for goodness sake! At the top of her class! Shouldn't that warrant a bit more bragging? Surely the phone calls from family members and AIM messages from friends should fill her with a bit more pride than it does.

She is a smart girl. She prides herself on such. Grades, academics, test scores - this is what she excels in, what she funnels most of her energy and time into. And for it to all be over, just like that, a quick burst of celebration in the waning Death City sun is almost exhausting. She feels older than _just eighteen_ , a fresh high school graduate in the first summer of her adulthood, on the cusp of college and further education. It's only the end of an era, after all. There is still more school to come. Still more classes and homework to fret over, still more knowledge to lust after.

Med school, she reminds herself. You're going to be a doctor someday. Going to be Mama's bright little doctor, with a bright, bright future, a white picket fence and a trustworthy husband someday. Two kids, a dog - stability, really, is what she craves. Someday, she'll be stable. Someday, she'll have children that won't lurk in the dim hallways as their parents bicker and cheat and thrive on passive-aggression to get them through. Maka won't be seventeen and pregnant.

She can't be, now. Seventeen is in the past. At seventeen, she'd been a virgin.

The same cannot be said for eighteen. Freshly christened as a woman, Maka still blushes at the thought of it, at the thought of Soul, so warm above her, pressing kisses to her throat. Of Soul and his body, the hard lines of his hips, long legs and _the other parts of him,_ too, that are less PG-13.

She presses her hands to her face and breathes out slowly. Blushing alone in her bedroom to stray thoughts of her _boyfriend_ instead of tracing the shape of the signature on her framed diploma - who is she, and what has she done with Maka Albarn?

Silly, sentimental girl. She knows better than this, knows better than to hold on too tightly to anything. In a matter of months, she'll be gone, and Soul, regardless that he had, in fact, pulled enough of his shit together into passing and marching with their class, is _not_ college bound.

She drops her cap onto her bed and parts the curtains behind her.

His silhouette is shadowed behind the deep shades of his own window, and faintly, Maka can make out the outline of him, his arms, tugging a shirt over his head and dropping it beside him. That gets her thinking - she's seen him topless before, heated, soft skin, a faint trail of hair leading to depths previously unknown - and before long she's daydreaming again, like a silly, lovelorn fourteen year old girl harboring her first crush. And maybe she is that girl now, unreasonably caught up in aimless thoughts of heavy sighs and dark eyes and snowy lashes tickling freckled cheeks, because when his hands shift lower, and Maka knows he's loosening his belt, she doesn't jump away and cease her peeping ways.

No. Instead, she grabs for the phone, presses it to her chest for a moment and collects her beating heart beneath the palm of her hands. With her pulse practically throbbing in her throat, it's hard to think of anything else but Soul's dazed, sleepy face in the early afternoon light.

The phone rings and rings, but he never picks up. Maka doesn't like the dial tone very much. Doesn't like the resulting beep after, signaling the beginning of her voice mail message. It reminds her too much of early Spring nights spent crying, all alone in her bed, waiting for her Mama to finally pick up the phone. Soul's shadow lingers in the window for a moment longer, as if he's contemplating, before his body crumbles down onto his bed and he exits the scene.

It shouldn't be possible to feel so far away from someone she knows so intimately. How is it possible, to love someone so fully, so incredibly, and still desire more? She does not own Soul's entire life, and to want all of it is unreasonable. She is just one girl with silly attachment issues, and he- he's a boy who managed to graduate high school despite all odds, a boy who flinches at raised voices and sirens and keeps spare change in his pocket to fiddle with. At any logical, unbiased angle, Soul Evans should be nothing special, perhaps, nothing more than a supremely pretty face and an old, reserved soul - but she _is_ biased, fretfully so, and so this hazy boy with eyes the color of wine has a monopoly on her heart.

With every passing day, it feels as though he's pulling farther away. In a month or so, summer will be over, and they still haven't had _the talk_.

The big, scary talk - the one she knows stresses Soul out. The very one he's been avoiding with exasperating precision for the past two months. College. Future. _Their_ future, _together_ , as a _couple,_ and whether or not he's willing to brave the waters of long distance with her. Or if he'd be willing to follow her across the country - because for him, she'd be willing to pick up a part time job, get an apartment with him, make it _work,_ somehow. For Soul, there's not much she wouldn't be willing to do.

Her face burns just thinking about it. Living with him, together, away from all of the pressure of his parents and the legacy of hers. Just the two of them. Maybe they could even share a _bed._

She is eighteen and no longer a virgin. They could do _things._ More things than they already have, with the blessing of privacy, at that! There would be no more worrying about alerting Wes (or worse, her Papa) to their festivities, or sneaking away to mess around in their old treehouse and risk splinters, or- or tangling up in the backseat of Soul's car, because god, is she over cramping necks and Soul rubbing his back after he's come, sore from leaning over her at such an uncomfortable angle.

Focusing on the positives helps her squash the little cracking feeling in her chest, the one that feels a lot like doom and gloom. Maybe Soul's just not in the mood to talk today. Maybe Soul's just not in the mood to talk _always_ and it's not personal.

.

Maka keeps a schedule.

The days on the calendar are rapidly depleting, so she starts marking them off in rainbow gel pens. There is only so much time before she's headed to the east coast - to college, far away from her friends and family - and with each passing minute a moment gone, time can only be of the essence. She must make the most out of her time left in Death City. Maka cannot afford to dilly dally and simply let her loved ones slip through her fingertips - not again, not while she's still waiting on Mama's return call, not while Soul still sleeps through the day and smokes away his nights.

So she begins marking her weeks. Days. Hours, sometimes - some Tuesdays are Blake's days, where they watch pro-wrestling on his living room floor and she wiggles her way out of headlocks, and some are Crona's, though often they're split and she divides up the hours between the two of them.

A boyfriend can only eat up so much of her time. There is more to Maka than who she is currently dating. There are more friends in her life than Soul, and she fully intends on spending as much time with them as she has been with him the past few months. It's hard, separating her energy into so many different directions, but who would she be if she didn't try? Would it make her a quitter, to only make enough time for her boyfriend, who sleeps most of the day? Would it make her _just one of those girls_?

She doesn't know if she wants to be _one of those girls_. She doesn't even know who those girls are supposed to be.

Mama had always said there was more to life than boys, than dating, but Mama hasn't called back in weeks and Papa never stays home long enough for Maka to really analyze him, so maybe those girls are onto something. Maybe those girls know how to get people - read: boys - to stay. Which is infuriating to think about, because- because _she loves him,_ nearly more than anything else, but Maka will not be reduced to the size of her tits or her ass.

Men are _the worst._ Just out of sheer frustration, Maka schedules Tsubaki more frequently than Blake.

Only- hanging out with Tsubaki isn't always _just hanging out with Tsubaki_.

She walks in to Liz, lounging lazily on Tsu's pink bedding, nail polish brush in one hand and magazine in another. From the other side of the bed, Tsubaki gasps, clapping her hands together and sitting taller, shifting away from leaning against Liz's long, bare legs. For a moment, Maka waffles in the doorway, unsure if she should be barging in on such a private moment. It seems platonic enough, but Maka still has her suspicions about what goes on between the two of them when they're alone, when they think no one else is looking - she might not be her boyfriend, but Maka likes to think she's pretty observant. She knows a lingering glance when she sees one. Been there, done that.

"Oh," she blurts.

Liz glances away from _Seventeen_. "Hey."

"Maka!" Tsubaki says cheerfully, patting an empty patch of bedding. "There's room over here."

If they're anything like her and Soul, Maka doesn't think she _wants_ to sit on the bed. Ah, well, it's Tsubaki, and surely she's meticulous and clean? Or maybe Maka's making things up, and things aren't like that between them - still, she sits neatly on the edge of the bed, ironing out the wrinkles in her skirt over her lap.

Without missing a beat, Liz flicks her wrist, painting her toenails a stark red. Such a color reminds her of lipstick-stained mouths, and her Papa's shirt collars, and Maka shifts uncomfortably. The magazine is dropped at her side and she sits taller, allowing for more room - but Maka doesn't yet take up the room, still cautious of personal space and whether or not she's _interrupted something._

"So," Liz says, gnawing on a wad of bubblegum. "What's the plan?"

"Was there a plan?"

Tsubaki shrugs, then pulls her long, elegant braid over her shoulder. "I was wondering what you wanted to do today?"

Anything that didn't involve waiting by the phone. Maka stares pointedly out the open window and says, "I don't care."

"Oh. Because… I have some leftover cookie dough, if you'd like to do that?"

"You mean, like, eating it?" Liz asks, brightening immediately.

Her girlfriend(?!) gently taps her knee. "After we bake it," Tsubaki says, and Liz melts back into her mattress, pouting for a moment before blowing a bubble and subsequently popping it. "I made half a batch with Crona the other night, but I think it'd be fun to have a baking day. We could watch movies while we wait, and-"

"You gonna wear the apron?"

 _ **What**_ _apron,_ Maka wonders, as she watches Tsubaki's pale face flood with a pretty pink. And on her side, Liz grins smugly, wiggling damp toes at her as Tsubaki splutters for a moment, politely batting her away. Whatever this alleged apron is, it must be some sort of inside joke or… something, because Tsubaki keeps blushing, even as Liz laughs and sits taller, glowing pink herself.

_Huh._

So _this_ is what it's like to third wheel. How lonely. She'd forgotten, somehow, that even girls can leave her in their dust, too.

.

It's like Soul is miles away.

He's _there_ but _not,_ head lost somewhere in the clouds. Distant, even when he holds her hand and walks her home, kisses her goodbye at the door, a soft press of his mouth to the corner of her lips. He's dazed in the way he brushes her bangs back from her face, dazed in the way his features seem to droop, dazed in the way he grunts affirmations to her questions. Like a puppet, he follows through the motions. And like a puppeteer, she seems to pull the strings, tugging him back up her front steps by their tethered hands.

Her boyfriend does not meet her eyes. Apparently, his shoes are more interesting than Maka, sliding her palms up his chest, cupping his shoulders. "Uh?"

"You could… come _in,_ if you want. Papa's out for the night, so, um…"

Does he understand what she's trying to say? What she's trying to offer? It's so shameless of her, asking so blatantly for him to join her in bed. For him to _undress her_ , and roll around in her sheets, keep her up past her bedtime and play her like a fine-tuned grand piano. She stares at him imploringly, going as far as to flutter her lashes, even, as if she possesses a seductive bone in her skinny body.

But he must find her attractive, right? He's slept with her more than once. He has planted himself between her thighs and licked her _stupid_. _Sometimes,_ when he looks at her, she thinks she might as well just be made of useless, hormonal putty - but sometimes, _lately,_ he shuffles uneasily, hand clammy in hers as he shrugs, seemingly indifferent.

He is there, but he is _not._

Courage cannot carry her through a lack of interest, and all at once, she feels angry for having offered at all, if this is the reaction she's going to get. Hurt, too, for offering something so vulnerable to him, just for him to shake it off so lazily. Most of all, though, she's embarrassed, and the sharp edge of rejection cuts deep. Swallowing back the lump in her throat is nearly painful.

Maka shuffles too. Drops his hands and folds her arms over her chest defensively, as if it will guard her heart. "Or not," she mutters, dejected.

His hands are in his pockets now. Soul exhales and it's shaky, a breath he can't hold steady. There's nothing steady about him these days. Doesn't even have one foot in her door, and the tiny, feebly part of her that still clings to hope screams _please, please, not him too. I can't lose him, too._

Stupid girl. Her nails dig into her palms and she half-wonders if it will draw blood. The pricks of pain center her, keep her from grabbing him by his shirt collar and shaking him, demanding he tell her where she went wrong, if she's been _mistreating him,_ what she can do to keep his attentions on her. It's unreasonable to want all of him, even now, knowing that she'll be moving away in mere weeks, _but-_ but he has a part of her, despite everything else, clutched in his nervous hands, buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. And without it, she's momentarily helpless, grasping desperately at his coat tails.

 _Stay,_ she wants to say. _Stay with me forever._ _ **Want**_ _me forever._

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Mmh," he huffs, glancing up to meet her eyes for only half a breath before re-acquainting himself with his shoes. "It's getting late. 'M tired."

" _Oh."_

He winces. "Tomorrow. We can hang out tomorrow."

There will only be so many tomorrows. A handful, surely, and suddenly her chest feels tight, full, ready to blow- _there are only so many_ _ **tomorrows**_ _left_ and she's yet to convince him to follow her.

She hasn't even found the time to _ask._

"Okay," Maka says, shifting, hands stuffed into her armpits, hugging herself tightly. He's almost angelic, framed in the flickering porch light, moths drifting past him. His hair is pale enough to be a halo, and he's fallen from grace, surely, judging by the deep-set dread lurking in the depths of his eyes, in the lines of his face. "Tomorrow, then."

For someone who just got their way, he doesn't look very pleased. Putting off the inevitable is only prolonging the pain, and perhaps he knows that, because he takes a step back and drops down a stair, very suddenly eye-level with her, and oh, how had she not noticed the bags under his eyes were so bad? Unable to stop herself, she reaches out, brushing only the pads of her fingertips over the delicate skin under his eye, so stained with purple that it nearly appears bruised. Such soft, tender skin to be marred with exhaustion. So dramatic, even, compared to the shade of his eyes - _blood._

He flinches beneath her touch. Started, Maka draws her hand back, as if she'd just stroked a flame. It certainly feels a lot like getting burnt.

(When has he ever flinched away from her?)

He's miles away, lost somewhere in the clouds. Or perhaps burrowing beneath their feet, digging and digging until the soil has piled high over him and there's nowhere left to hide. Would flowers sprout from him? Would they gather all the sunshine left in him and grow, green and lively, poking out from his pale ears?

It's like he's a zombie now. Like someone's burrowed into his chest and eaten his heart out.

Funny. She doesn't taste the tang of blood on her lips.

"I love you," she says softly, cautiously, nearly lost in the buzzing of the porch light, the humming of passing cars, as if it will be enough to keep him close.

He waves half-heartedly, as if his hand weighs a thousand pounds. But it can't, because those fingers are so bony and frail, now. They'd been in hers, only minutes prior, and holding them had been nothing.

.

Tomorrow, it rains.

Her rubber boots squeak and slosh as she marches her way through a puddle, en route for the Evans' front door. When it rains it pours, apparently - it's almost funny, because the desert rain is notoriously rare and a special occasion, but Maka's so accustomed to the bright, harsh sun that the downcast weather summons an overwhelming sense of doom clouding deep in her gut. It's something that even splashing around in the mud puddles like a child can't solve.

It should be a sign. It's probably a sign.

Maka ignores it and knocks on the front door. Then rings the doorbell, too, for good measure. Trembling knees are never reassuring. The slick, retching feeling clogging her throat makes her want to cry, and if Soul is not reborn today, bright-eyed and full of his signature snark, well, she doesn't know what she'll do.

(If graduation hadn't solved his blues - if _sex_ hadn't solved his blues - well, what will?)

Lost in her thoughts, she barely notices the door swinging open. Only when Mr. Evans clears his throat does Maka jolt from her thoughts; he's as startling and imposingly tall as ever, hard features unnervingly stern as he peers down at her. His eyes are just as dark as his son's, but his are cold, unnerving, dark-navy, sharp like a blade.

Around him, it's always like she's smaller than she actually is. It probably has something to do with the way he looks down on people, both figuratively and literally. Probably has a lot to do with how Soul can't seem to meet her eyes some days, how Soul always seems to slouch down, as if to make himself smaller, a slighter target.

Maka swallows thickly and braces herself. It's the weekend, now, but still, she'd been hoping it would be Wes or one of the housekeepers to open the door. All things considered, it is Mr. Evans' day off, she supposes, but- there has still been a glimmer of hope, no matter how small, that had pleaded with reality. _Let anyone else greet her at the door. Anyone else._

She feels sick with unease as it is; the last thing she needs is a pretentious, entitled man shooting her down.

"Hi," she starts, squaring her shoulders. He stares at her unblinkingly. "Is Soul home?"

He watches her, observing. Such watchful, judgemental eyes. No wonder Soul is the way he is, or why Soul folds under pressure - he's been dealing with _this_ his whole life.

"In his room," he says stiffly. Such a sudden, deep voice is startling. "What is it you want?"

She's his girlfriend, for goodness sake; is visiting him such a crime? Maka presses her lips together and minds her manners, barely - the urge to snap back is overwhelming, and she clenches her hands at her side, listening to the rhythm of the rain in a weak attempt to bank the inferno of her temper. "Could I see him? It's important."

Finally, he blinks. The milliseconds in which his eyes are not centered on her cannot last long enough, and the cold blue of his stare flickers back without fail. Unlike Soul, though, Maka does not feel the instinctual need to cower and draw back, hide her teeth and tongue behind her lips and stew - no, instead, Maka would rather like to grab him and shake him, ask why he thinks he's so much better than her. What, because he was born into money? Because he can play the cello and move audiences to tears?

Maka grits her teeth. _News flash,_ someday she'll be _saving lives._ Someday, she'll be a doctor - and she can't see how that's any less important than mere _entertainment_. And being spoken down to is not on the menu for her future. Hell no.

She is not a little girl anymore. She is no longer seventeen, wide-eyed and filled with wonder. The cracks have started to set in, started to chip and give way to this new, adult Maka. The one who questions everything, who fights, who will not let herself be walked all over. Not anymore. This Maka will not sit down quietly, bury her nose in a book and hope knowledge will lead her to a place where she isn't so afraid anymore.

In a few weeks, she will be in New England, working on a medical degree, and - if everything works out - Soul will be at her side, working on his music or whatever it is that will make him happy, away from his father's stare and his brother's shadow. They'll make it, together.

She just has to sit still and look pretty. And certainly not bop Soul's dad in the nose.

Finally, though, he relents, and backs up enough for Maka to squeeze through the doorway. "He's upstairs," Mr. Evans mutters, tone pinched. "Wasting away up there instead of practicing like he's supposed to. Figures, he'd invite you over instead of actually putting forth any sort of effort for once. That boy…"

Her temper burns white-hot, and no way, no mother- _fudging_ way. Her bones are steel as her head snaps over to glare at him, heart rumbling in her chest like a motor, and she hisses, "He's _trying._ "

 _He's trying,_ Wes had said to her once, the very same. _He's trying, go easy on him._ She wonders how often the eldest brother has said the same to his father, wonders how often anyone else in this house has stood up for Soul. Well, she has no problem speaking up on Soul's behalf. The way she sees it, her foot is already halfway out of the _state_. He can't belittle her from across the country, can't make her seem small when she's working hard on getting a college degree.

He glances curiously at her. "Not very hard, if he's going to spend his days sleeping," he says, very calmly - it's jarring. Nothing about this man is soothing, or even remotely calm; she's lived next door to this man for years, has heard his own temper snap, has seen the aftermath written in Soul's face as he crawled in her window, asking to Zelda.

But appearances are everything, she supposes, in this family. Must be why half of the town still doesn't know about Soul's lack of plans for college. Must be why he bothers putting a hand on Soul's shoulder at all when they're out in public.

"You know that, don't you?" he asks, adjusting his glasses. He takes them off the perch of his nose, summons a handkerchief, wipes at the lenses meticulously. "You're a bright girl. Wes tells me you've gotten yourself a full ride scholarship. _That's_ working hard."

It should be flattering. But it's meant to demerit Soul, meant to chip away at the bricks that make up his walls, his carefully built defenses. Instead of flattering her, it pisses her right off. _Temper, temper._

"It's harder for him," she says, fists clenched at her side, still. "Can't you tell? He doesn't work the same way I do. Numbers and things, and sitting and studying- it's not for him. But it doesn't mean he's not trying. He's just…"

" _Lazy,"_ his father finishes, slipping his glasses upon his nose

 _Tired_ , Maka thinks instead, sadly. _Scared. And I can't blame him._

.

If possible, Soul looks more sickly than he had yesterday.

His face has gotten so thin. His skin has gotten so pale. His cheekbones look more pronounced, jutting out almost in harsh angles, the shadows in his face gaunt and almost gray. His exhaustion is written plainly, in the dark purple staining beneath his eyes, in the way his lids droop, the way his lashes flutter heavily. Still, though, despite it all, he sits on the edge of his bed as she enters the room, bong poised against the opposite wall. His hands shake on his knees, fingers drumming incessantly.

He's unreadable in the way he watches her. The door shuts behind her with a click. Maka swallows her heart and watches him push his hair out of his eyes. Even if she wanted to, how could she sleep with him now? How could she ask that of him, when he's clearly coming apart at the seams?

 _Just a little longer,_ she thinks. _Just last a little longer and we'll get you out of here yet._

Home stretch.

"It's tomorrow," she jokes, stepping forward, shrugging her way out of her yellow raincoat. "I brought snacks-"

"I think we should break up."

The world comes to a screeching halt. Even Soul looks surprised at blurting it out so suddenly, blinking rapidly before cupping his hands over his knees, grasping at the rough fabric of his jeans. He looks anywhere but at her, biting his lip, foot tapping, and Maka tries to swallow the creeping fear.

"What," she mumbles softly. "Um-"

"We… should break up," he says, stony, shoulders lurching, trembling. She wants to race forward, to cup his face in her hands and hold him to her chest, anything to give him a steady rhythm to latch onto. "Long distance is hard, right? "Nd you're… you're going across the country, Maka, and I'm-"

"You can come with me!" she practically bursts, a frantic fanfare. Maka all but stumbles forward, wedging his legs apart, planting herself between his knees. She will carve a place for herself if she has to, anything to be a part of him, of his life. "We can get an apartment, or you can, and in a year I'll move in with you and get a job while I go to school-"

It's like she can't catch her breath. Like the words can't spill fast enough, and if she's not careful, not quick enough, Soul will be lost forever in the bleak space between them. His legs tremble around her, knees bobbing, and his hands don't seek out her thighs or the curve of her waist, her hips. He stares at her, eyes bigger than she can ever remember, so clouded up with fear that it chokes her up, too. How can she breathe when he's looking at her like this? How can she spit out the words without shaking him further?

She plants her hands on his face instead. If he won't touch her, she'll be the one; his face is damp in her palms, cheeks almost clammy, and his eyes burn just a twidge more red than normal. Misty lashes.

It must be raining _inside,_ too. Thunder and lightning roar and shatter her careful hope right there, shaking his bones, but the sound of him sucking in a harsh breath is louder than anything else. What a storm is passing through, she thinks, even as the flickering of his lamp serves as the only whipcrack of lightning. What a beautiful day wasted.

"Soul," she says urgently, heart leaping into her throat. "Soul, we can do this. I know we can."

He breaks in her hands, eyes fluttering shut, throat clenching as he swallows thickly. "... _I_ can't-"

"Soul, _please-_ "

His stare is red-hot. He jerks away, suddenly, ducking out of her grasp, scuttling back into his bed. The space is cold without him, and yet her eyes still feel hot, teardrops streaming down her face. Soul stares at her, chest heaving, legs akimbo, looking shrewd and broken on his bed, gaunt and gangly. Then he loses his nerve, swallowing again, looking to her trembling knees, his tangled bedding, as his hands twist themselves in the sheets. Lashes fluttering, something passes over him, like maybe he's become the eye of the storm himself, and the calm is almost unnerving.

In the time it takes Maka to gather her heart, Soul's stare has iced over. How cold it is, to stand before him, more vulnerable than she's ever been before, and he can do nothing but glance passively at her hands, her shoulders.

"I love you," she mumbles. "I don't want to do this without you. Please come with me."

The lines on his face are so hard, now. Shallow, shallow cheeks and pursed brows and tight lips. He gathers his legs and tucks them beneath himself. "You know I can't do that."

"You haven't even _tried_!"

Blood has never looked so chilled. Such dark, dark eyes for a boy so closed off. Such a warm color for such a harsh stare. "Never _tried,_ " he mutters dangerously.

"You don't even want to be here, do you? We can just go, and I'll-"

"You think I haven't _tried?_ "

Vaguely, she hears echoes of his father. _Lazy boy,_ something whispers from beneath the bed, the monsters that keep Soul up at night. _Selfish girl,_ the looming clouds above rumble. And instead of basking in it, wallowing in her mistake, in the cracks of Soul's overwhelming self-doubt, Maka leans on anger. It's easier to be angry than vulnerable, after all. It's easier to shout and blame and clench her fists than back down and bow her head, let herself really feel the whipcrack of loss slap across her heart.

If he is a storm, she is a raving whirlwind. Like a cacophony of hurt, she retches back, fisted-hands pressed to her chest, shaking. "I'm asking you to come with me!"

"And I'm telling you I can't!" he snaps.

The distance between them is more than a few feet. No, by now it is miles, and that closeness she'd felt to him all year stretches out, the tether wrapping tighter around her neck. How can she go on being strangled like this? How can he just sit there and pull the sting?

Maka takes a furious, quiet step back. "Can't, or _won't?_ "

He pushes a hand through his wild hair. Caught halfway between bedhead and catastrophe, he looks older, somehow. "That's not fair, Maka."

"No, _you're_ not fair!" she bursts, finally, like a dam giving way. "Y-You can't just…! You can't just make me love you a-and then try and take it all back, you big jerk! You _asshole!_ Do you have any idea what it was like, trying to work up the courage to sleep with you? And for what, for you to ditch in a month? It's _degrading,_ Soul! What, was I not good enough for you?"

The walls pile up around him, brick by painstaking brick. That scared, nervous boy is hidden away again, locked behind decrypt doors and pathways. And for once, Maka's unsure of how to navigate through his maze. Hell, she's unsure if she even can.

"It's not about that," he says quietly. His fingers pinch down the hems of his sleeves.

Maka could laugh. Choke her way through her tears and gasps and make a bigger fool out of herself. How adult of her, to be reduced to quivering, sobbing gulps. "Of course it is! It's _always_ been about that for me, you-!" she stumbles back, very nearly shaking in anger. _Stupid girl, what are you trying to prove?_

She wants to hold him in her hands and crush him. She wants to hold him forever and hold him close, make him understand the soul-deep coil that he has over her, the spell his eyes and his hands have cast. For so long, it has been _SoulandMaka_ , _MakaandSoul_ , nearly inseparable, despite her temper and pre-sex jitters and his quiet, shy reservations. Despite everything, despite Maka not being his type, or whatever, despite Soul not allegedly finding Liz sexually appealing - he'd still found his way into her heart, into her life, weaseling his way into the cracks left behind by her mother.

And how is she ever supposed to go on, without that ever-constant? How is she supposed to go on, knowing he doesn't want to stay?

"I can't believe this is happening," she mutters shallowly, nearly out of breath.

For a beat, Soul looks caught between reaching out for her and tunneling deeper into that shell of his, but the moment he raises a hand she retreats, fearful of the hand that feeds. No more poison, she thinks. Her brain is numb enough as it is.

"No!" she shrieks, then proceeds to throw the snacks she carries down, bag crinkling as it narrowly misses his face. "No, you don't get to try and make this better! I- Sorry I wasn't good enough for you!"

" _What?"_

He shouldn't look so bewildered. She'd told him once that Liz had spilled the beans. She _knows,_ Soul. Knows all about his little sexual experiment with his bandmate, supposedly just for science, or- or whatever. If Liz wasn't good enough to get him to feel something, how could silly little Maka ever hope to compare? What does she have to offer that Liz hadn't? Crippling trust issues? Tiny breasts and slim hips and _fat ankles?_ Still, though, she'd tried. Painted herself as a pretty girl, brushed her hair and forgone tying it back because he'd liked braiding it, worn short skirts and shaved meticulously to keep her legs smooth - just the way Soul liked it.

Or so she thought. Perhaps Mama was right; she should have never tried to change any part of herself to impress a boy. Boys never stayed, after all. Boys are only after one thing.

And Maka gave it up.

"I hate you!" she shrieks, pulling at her pigtails. Her blood burns hot enough to make her delirious. "I _hate_ you, I _hate you-!_ "

Soul's eyes are pretty when they're soft. Fool her once, shame on him. Fool her twice, well, now her mother's gone and won't pick up the phone and Papa can't keep it in his pants. Fool her twice and now she is single, for real, alone, two weeks away from the biggest change yet.

"No, don't-!" Her feet can't move fast enough; Maka nearly trips over herself, spinning around to rip the door open and storm her way out, shoving past a bewildered Wes.

The last she sees of eighteen year old Soul is a boy with an age-old soul, grievances etched into the harsh, shallow lines of his face. Eyes too deep to be trusted. And as she bursts free from the Evans house, the real world is painted dark gray, the rare summer storm heavy on her thin dress as her boots slosh through the murk of mud, nearly trampling through Mrs. Evans' flower garden.

When it rains, it pours.


	11. you oughta know

**2008**

.

"Turn, please?"

Christ, she should have smothered more concealer under her eyes. Maka looks like a zombie, standing there in an ill-fitting bridesmaid dress, pale and sickly, swaddled in pink silk. It's supposed to make her look darling, or perhaps even flatter her, but she's just a pinch too yellow-toned to pull it off at the moment, and with her hair all tied up atop her head in a lackluster bun, she looks less supportive maid of honor and more Maka Albarn, circa 1999, the year of college-induced overnighters.

It's a recipe for disaster anyway. Although she's no longer a teenager, gangly and slim, she's still not exactly the picture of stereotypical beauty. Her hips have rounded out, sure, but only enough for them to peek through the shapeless silk, hipbones visible and sharp, despite the slip she'd thought to purchase. And - as her eyes sink lower on her reflection, scoping out the uninteresting line of her sternum - it's certainly doing nothing for her bust, either. Without the aid of a push up bra, there is no cleavage to be found.

Which isn't a terrible thing. And ordinarily, Maka wouldn't give a flying fladoodle about how her tits look in her bridesmaid dress, because the day isn't about her anyway. There's no need for her to steal the show.

Not... that her tits are anything to write home about. 32B is about as impressive as waking up in the morning to slick, snow-covered roads and no 2-hour delay. And really, there's no one to impress, except-

Except only hours ago, Maka had quite literally run into Soul Evans. The very same Soul Evans who had _fucked her and chucked her_ nearly ten years ago, so excuse her if she's feeling a little vindictive. Is it wrong of her to want to show off what he could have had, should he have came with her?

She deflates. There's not much to show off. She looks like she hasn't slept in the ten years they've been apart. There is no extra bounce in her ounce. Her hair is thin and drab and she's never been able to do anything with it except tie it back, and that's- well, he's seen that all already. He's seen everything already. Cracked her open, took a peek inside and decided that she just wasn't worth it. She wasn't for him.

_It should not still sting._

"Did I pin you?" the seamstress asks, brows drawn.

Maka schools her expression into something closer to careful indifference and shakes her head. Ah, maybe grimacing into the mirror while mentally checking off all of her physical flaws isn't the best plan. Certainly won't do anything to keep suspicion off of her back.

"No," she says, chewing her lip. "I'm just tired, sorry. Did you need me to turn again?"

The seamstress plucks another from her tiny red pincushion and shakes her head. "No, dear, we're almost done. Keep still. Back straight. Face forward, please - yes, that's better. You're sure everything is alright? Does everything feel okay?"

She's been nursing a broken heart since she was eighteen years old, and the asshole who _tossed her aside_ just waltzed back into her life, but, "I'm fine."

There is value in pretty lies. To be the same emotional, blown-open teenager with her heart on her sleeve - it'd be dangerous, to allow herself to be so vulnerable. The first time had very nearly town her apart, and to let it happen again - fool her once, shame on him, but fool her twice?

Maka crinkles the fabric of her dress between her fingers as the seamstress stands up and turns away. The girl looking back in the mirror looks caught between eighteen and twenty-eight, and when she turns to glance over her shoulder, Tsubaki seems to notice the paradox as well. God, even despite her best efforts, Maka still can't seem to keep her thoughts to herself; she still has to broadcast her feelings like a damn televised show, like she's still the same struggling ingenue she'd been ten years ago, chest torn wide open.

It's frustrating. Maka swallows thickly and tries to bear it.

"It's a pretty color on you," Tsubaki says gently.

She feels like a toddler playing dress up in her older sibling's clothes, just big enough to be uncomfortable and unflattering, just enough to make her feel small and insignificant. She is no doll, she supposes. Has she ever been particularly pretty?

"Thanks," Maka says, still bunching up her skirt in her hands. "I think I need a tan."

Tsu shakes her head. "It can't be any worse than me in white. I'm just as pale as you are, you know."

It's true, but Tsubaki Nakatsukasa is tall and willowy, with high cheekbones and pretty pink lips and a fuller figure than Maka could ever dream of having. The type of pretty that people write poems about, the type deserves flowers in their hair and to wear such delicate pastel shades. With only a week before the wedding, Tsu is every bit the blushing bride she's meant to be, painted like a porcelain doll, all prettied up even though there are still seven days to go before her big day.

And yet Maka still hasn't gotten her dress situation figured out. If possible, she deflates more. "Sorry about the dress."

"No! No, it's okay. It's our fault for not ordering the right size the first time. It's nothing a little fitting room magic can't fix, though."

Somehow, she doubts any amount of magic will make her look like a blooming rose, but whatever; it's Tsu's day, anyway, not hers. Maka's not the one putting a ring on it, not the one people will focus on as she floats down the aisle.

She hops down from the platform and collects her skirt, hem dragging behind her as she scurries over to the changing room. Once she's free of the dress, the invisible zipper has been undone along her side, it's easy to breathe again and feel more like herself. The safety of an oversized sweater, some comfortable flats - it's more like home, and even through her nails are bitten down and chipped, she still feels prettier in this than a gown.

It only lasts so long. She catches another fleeting glance at herself in the mirror and cringes at the tension in her brows, the darkness under her eyes.

"Maka?"

She jumps, flinches, turns to face Tsubaki. By now, the girl's stood up, clutching her purse to her chest, looking motherly and concerned. "Are you sure everything's alright?"

_It's not about me,_ she thinks urgently. _How selfish would it be to make this wedding about me?_

"Of course," Maka starts, crushing the tiny voice in the back of her head that screams _danger, danger._ "I'm just stressed about the wedding, you know? But it'll be fine. I can take a nap later when I get home, and Crona and I will go over some more planning things when I wake up-"

"Please don't push yourself!"

Doesn't she know? Studying, planning, outlines and notes - this is all she has. It's the only way she knows how to deal, the only way Maka's ever known how to compartmentalize her thoughts and feelings so that she may just starve off the imminent explosion yet.

.

By the time she finally makes it home, Crona already has dinner on the table and wears a wrinkle between their brows.

"You're late," they mutter, fiddling with their sleeves. "You're never late."

Not entirely true; Maka routinely goes for runs to blow off steam, and sometimes those runs last for hours at a time. To say she's always punctual is a bit of a stretch, but still- the way Crona nibbles their lip as they pull out a chair for her is enough to dilute the fog that spreads from ear to ear and makes Maka feel particularly Stabby. Guiltily, almost unreasonably so, she drops into the seat and proceeds to shred a paper napkin between her fingers.

It must be more than a little odd. A tell, perhaps, and that notorious temperamental Albarn blood runs through her veins, sure as shit. Maka's always worn her heart on her sleeve. Just this once, though, she wishes she could swallow down the lump in her throat that clogs up the way for reason and responsibility. Who is she, running around and worrying her roommate? Who is she, worrying Tsubaki, soon-to-be bride, married woman, recipient of a well-deserved happily ever after?

Floral-printed confetti falls in a pile before her. Crona gently nudges the plate towards the center of the table instead. "M-Maka?"

"I got caught up at the seamstress, sorry," she says miserably, melting forward, elbows on the table and all. "I forgot to text."

"Weddings _are_ a lot of work," they mumble.

Maka finds herself humming in agreement. With an outstretched hand, she sleepily twists her fork around a pile of spaghetti. "Sorry to worry you."

"I-I'm just glad you're home before dark. Did you go for a run, too?"

She laughs humorlessly as pasta slops back off of her fork and into the saucy abyss. "Can you tell? Do I smell?"

They pink. "N-No! You just- you h-have this look on your face," Crona says, first softly, before gaining momentum in spades and bravely planting themselves in the seat across from her. Tall and willowy, now, without looking sickly, there's a brief moment where a seed of affection blooms in her chest, a tinge of pride as she watches her closest friend sit tall. She can still remember a time when Crona wasn't quite bold enough to speak their mind, not brave enough to inquire further, lest they simmer in the fear of upsetting her.

It's refreshing, to be questioned. Especially since her friends have done such a bang-up job of handling her with kid gloves for the past few years. Careful, careful, as if afraid that Maka might break again.

Crona's hand blankets over hers. Maka snaps back to reality, cursing beneath her breath. "I'm fine," she says automatically.

But her roommate is clearly not convinced. They bite their lip, slender fingers curling around her wrist before muttering, "Are you sure? B-Because, if you're not-"

She is Maka the brave, Maka the independent, and worrying Crona is something she can never do. Not again, not after her spectacular burnout in college, not after locking herself in her dorm room for weeks, parting only to mindlessly take notes in class and shower, occasionally. And to be that girl again - that miserable, pitiful girl, so lovelorn over a boy that it nearly destroyed her - would be against her very code.

She is strong. _Now_ and _always,_ and fuck him for ever taking that fire out of her eyes. _Fuck him_ for ever making her helpless.

Fuck him, _especially,_ for waltzing back into her life and throwing everything out of whack, just when she was beginning to find a rhythm again. It's taken her ten years to find harmony again, to trust that maybe, just maybe, not everyone is going to leave her behind, that it will not always be so lonely. She has a degree now. She's a goddamned _doctor,_ sure as shit, just like Mama always wanted.

"I'm fine," Maka repeats. Perhaps if she keeps saying it, the notion will finally sink in. As if stubborn repetition can cauterize all wounds. "Really, it's nothing."

Crona doesn't seem convinced. It's fine, though; Maka's not really too convinced either. But healing takes time, she thinks, and if ten years isn't enough time to get over Soul Evans and his stupid, crooked grin, then hell, she's already committed; what's a few more days, really, before he's up and gone again? Trust is easy, now that she knows what to look for. Trusting that he will fade away at 28, just as he'd tried so valiantly to at 18, is a breeze. Easy as breathing.

She is Maka the brave, and nothing will bring her down. Not an awkward wedding reception, not a boy, and certainly not the concerned look Crona gives her as she downs her glass of wine and shuffles off to bed.

Nothing is more motivating than spite, after all. And _despite him,_ she's going to be alright.

.

Keeping her cool around Liz is considerably more difficult.

Mostly she feels betrayed. If anyone, Liz knew what the breakup had done to her. Liz had been the one to push them together, after all. And beyond that, Liz had been more privy to Soul's _moods_ than even Maka had been, so she'd certainly known that the big Something was coming long before her. And for a long time, it had stung, knowing that her friend kept in touch with the boy that nearly set Maka unchained, left her locked inside her dorm room for her first semester, mourning the loss of her childhood innocence.

But she'd forgiven her, finally. Grew up enough to look past it, even woman'd-up enough to politely scroll by Facebook posts involving their band before even they broke up, inevitably. Christ, but they'd been more on-and-off than anything else, seemingly collecting their shit long enough to put together a few songs before breaking apart again.

Inviting him to the wedding, though, is a crossed line. And it's not Maka's wedding, fair, but it's still- to put through her such heartache is cruel. To put him even in the same space, to allow him to breathe the same air- she's heated just thinking about it. Sitting across from her is a decidedly Bad Idea, but dinner with the brides is just part of the bonding experience, helps soothe the pre-wedding jitters that keep Tsubaki biting her lip and Liz nervously fiddling with her glass of wine.

Maka keeps wisely - kindly - quiet, jaw set, barely resisting the urge to purse her lips

"I-Isn't it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?" Crona pipes up, nibbling airily on the end of a cheese fry.

Liz downs a sip of her drink and leaves a burgundy stain on the rim of her glass. "That'd be a little hard, considering we live together."

"We still have a week left anyway!"

"Oh," they say, nodding. They move to dip their fry in ranch dressing, chew and swallow before speaking up again. "Is that how it works?"

"Hah!" Blake laughs, leaning forward and very nearly knocking the salsa into Maka's lap. "They just don't want to stop fucking each other stupid before the big day. I hear it all, Crona, lemme tell you. Those apartment walls are _not_ thick."

" _Blake!"_

Tsubaki's resulting gasp does nothing to mute his mile-wide grin. "You're getting married, Tsu, we all know it's happening! None of us were born yesterday-"

"Can we _not_ discuss their sex life over dinner?" Maka cuts in, quite literally yanking the blue buffoon back by his earlobe. As much as the petty, angry part of her likes watching Liz squirm, it's still not worth Tsubaki's suffering.

And, really, Maka's in no mood to watch their happy sex life be paraded before her eyes. Simmer, simmer. Blake falls back and Maka mashes her hand back into her lap, staring pointedly at Liz's own hand as she laces her fingers between her fiance's. An unreasonable bout of jealousy fills her, thick like sludge, as her thumb glides soothingly over the tender skin of Tsubaki's palm.

Maka takes to chewing on her straw to distract herself. There's still a space left between her fingers, and with nothing else to fill it, she grips the cool glass of her drink, condensation damp on her skin. The ice jingles against glass like welcome bells, and when Maka glances up from her silent contemplation, there's another presence, looming at the edge of their booth like death himself.

For someone so tall and moody, he moves so quietly. But Maka would know Soul Evans' signature aura anywhere, and feels him with annoyingly accurate revelation. And she stares, because she's completely unsure what else she's meant to do in such a situation - greet him and pretend like everything's alright, like she hasn't plotted revenge and payback and the like hundreds of times? Like she hasn't cussed him out after every long college weekend, drunk off of cheap beer and wine coolers?

Her straw crushes between her teeth. From her side, Crona squirms.

"Here, I'll push over," Liz starts, bumping elbows with her soon-to-be wife. "We can make room-"

"Mother _fucker_ ," Blake mutters incredulously.

Soul ducks beneath the combined weight of their stares and shuffles nervously. Something in Maka's chest tightens as he sits, shoulders sloping further the longer her gaze sits, and- he piles his hands together on the table, not quite politely but still not intrusively, and _fuck him_ for being here at all and acting as if he's welcome. Fuck him _sideways._

"Uh," Soul says cautiously.

"You _motherfucker,_ " Blake repeats, leaning forward, palms planted on the table. Nearby restaurant patrons stare, and Crona wilts beneath the heat of attention even more quickly than Soul does. "Who the fuck do you think you are, ignoring my texts, we could have split a hotel-"

_What._

"-I've been blowing up your phone for HOURS, Evans, and then you just show up here," Blake says, then lifts a hand and gives Maka's ex boyfriend a _noogie_ of all things. And here she'd been, thinking he'd been about ready to knock the daylights out of him. _Hoping,_ even. "C'mere, you reclusive _son of a bitch_ -!"

" _-Easy,_ I'm sure his stupid hair is the reason he's late-!"

" _What,"_ Maka blurts, finally, _finally_ , and time screeches to a halt.

There are hundreds of ways Maka's thought about interacting with Soul again. Mostly, she's fantasized about finally getting back at him, of revving up and punching him right in his stupid mopey face and making _him_ cry for once, or- or accepting her degree while he watches from afar, a burnout, miserable, alone. And in her wildest, loneliest dreams, she'd thought about him in less violent, petty ways- thought of his hands, and his face, and fleeting, heart wrenching memories of how soft his lips had been the first time he'd kissed her, the last time he'd kissed her, on her porch, with the lamp flickering, haloing him in holy light.

It's almost funny. Ten years and he still looks at her the same way. Ten years and he still can melt her goddamn knees, can make her heart skip and clench.

Rage, though. It's rage now. And her balled up fists on her lap do nothing to help sate the ire brewing within her; she feels a little like a bottled-up volcano, a barely banked inferno, so primed and ready to burst. Not just aimed at Soul, either. Maka shoots Liz a furious, piercing look, and it's nearly enough to shatter her carefully-maintained calm.

"Ah," Soul mumbles, shuffling at the foot of the table, shrugging Blake's beefy arms off of his person. He can't quite meet her eye for a moment, caught staring at the table before her, the crushed straw of her drink. "... Hey, everyone."

"Soul," Liz says pleasantly, then shoots Maka a look. Volcano Maka simmers, bubbling, boiling. "Have a seat. Tsu and I can scoot to make room."

There's no way. Maka feels like shouting, kicking her legs and screaming _he can't sit here_ because no, no _way_. She's here, and regardless of Soul's long term friendship and history with Liz, it would just be cruel to trap her like this, at dinner with her ex boyfriend - _the_ **Ex** , the one singers croon over and writers pen damply and girls like Maka throw their wine glasses at. And she's armed, too. Liz's drink is only a breath away. It's tempting.

But sure as shit, after his clear internal waffling, Soul sits nervously at the end of the booth. It's like all of the air has been sucked out of the room, and Crona, who sits across from him, makes a panicky, gasping sort of noise. "I-I-"

"Hey," he says again, weakly.

They offer a weak smile. Tense. The only thing that's more tense is the way Liz keeps staring at Maka, as if demanding she behave, like a mother. As if Liz is her keeper and can control her.

_Have a little faith,_ she thinks.

"I'm glad you could make it," Liz says finally, pointedly, offering Soul a welcoming smile. It's surely at odds with Maka's current mood, which has shifted from strained politeness to _stabby_. The curved, freshly manicured edge of her nails dig into her palms. "Hope you're hungry!"

He grimaces, then finally peeks over at her. Soul's eyes are just as dark as they'd been a few days before, when she'd accidentally ran into him. "I could eat," he admits, quietly, so carefully withdrawn, as if not to offend.

_Asshole._ He's offensive just by breathing the same air as her. She grits her teeth and curls her fists deeper into her lap, if possible, leaning further back into her seat and hoping Blake's bulging biceps might shield her from Soul's eyes. He cannot look at her like that, so shyly, so sadly. It'll make her cry. And more than anything else, she wants to clock him, right in between his stupidly pretty eyes.

Eyes that keep gazing over at her, now. Maka keeps catching him staring, shooting her sad puppy looks, fluttering, feather-light lashes annoyingly, delicately. He has absolutely no business looking at her like that and yet he still does. The distance between them is enough to feel invasive, but not small enough, still, to warrant spitting on him or something along those lines. Maka the Mature certainly would never take the bait.

Unfortunately, she's not feeling quite as mature right now as she should be. Maka instead takes to glaring at him every time she catches him staring. And every time, Soul shrinks back, but he's only a shadow of the curious, anxious boy he'd been in his youth, and this newfound nerve that strums through him every time she holds his gaze long enough does things to _her_ , instead.

So much for going on the offensive.

_Asshole_ , she thinks again.

"That's what I like to hear!" Liz says with a rousing laugh, sitting forward and shoving her drink at him. "Here, loosen up again. Take a look at the menu. We've got a lot to catch up on, Evans."

Those wine-red eyes of his flicker, just for a moment, like an old VCR recording; there's white static humming there, and the wash of his lashes aligns the light again. Soul says, "No thanks."

"Huh?"

He gently nudges Liz's glass away. "I don't drink. I'll take the menu, though."

And that's that.

"Excuse me," Maka _commands,_ not _asks,_ before quite literally _shoving_ her way out of the booth, climbing over Blake's lap and stumbling over Crona's legs. There's a round of gasps, and Maka takes special care to stomp on Soul's foot on her march out, feeling petty and powerful and spiteful, despite everything else, despite Tsubaki's delicate cry of her name.

.

Her escape goes almost flawlessly, and she's halfway across the restaurant and kicking the bathroom door open when she hears Liz's bracelets jingling behind her, and then it's on. It's on like Donkey Kong, and she's whirling around, heart thundering in her ears, blood roaring; she is not this girl anymore, _goddammit,_ but what the fuck kind of friend traps her in a situation like that? Liz knows better, for goodness sake! She _knows_.

Maybe not in the way Tsubaki does, but still- she'd seen, definitely, and she'd almost certainly heard the dirty details from her girlfriend, too. Her _high school sweetheart._

She swallows and it burns. Like acid, melting what's left of her composure as it slips down, plummeting into the pit of her stomach, like a single drop of blood in a dish of milk. And how it burns, still, and her knees tremble despite herself.

" _What_ ," Maka asks, seething, shaking. "Can't I use the bathroom in peace?"

Liz's bangles continue clinking together as she rounds on her, red nails dragging against the porcelain of the sink. "I didn't think you'd run away, Maka."

"I'm not running."

"You _ran,_ " Liz insists, standing before her. It's smothering, still being shorter, even in heels. It's smothering, being looked down upon like that, as if Liz knows better than she does. As if she knows more, miraculously, about Maka's own breakup, Maka's own ex, Maka's own _feelings_. "Like an angry puppy with its tail between its legs. It's not like you at all."

"Maybe I wanted to freshen up!" She throws her hands up. "Or maybe- maybe I just-!"

"You angry?"

Angry isn't even the half of it. If she weren't so caught between crying and screaming, Maka might grace that with an answer. Instead, she grunts spectacularly, turning to face herself in the bathroom mirror and dragging her hands down her face.

Liz is as ruthless as ever. She's over her shoulder in a heartbeat, stare as razor-sharp as her eyeliner, and Maka growls in the back of her throat, nose flaring. "You're angry, aren't you? Who, at me? Him?"

"Both!"

Her eyes are grey-blue gunmetal. "It's my wedding, Maka. He's my friend."

"But-!"

"He's my _friend,_ Maka," she says again, very sternly, and Maka exhales shakily through her nose, feeling childish and selfies and _vindictive,_ more than anything else. Monstrous, almost. "It's been ten years, you know. I thought you'd be mature enough to handle it without making a scene."

The chink in her armor is blown wide for a white-hot moment, and before it's even past, she's hard at work, patching it up shoddily with whatever she can get her hands on. Bracing herself on the sink, Maka sighs heavily, shoulders sloping. _How,_ she wonders, can Liz be so _casually cruel,_ blatantly dropping such harsh honesties on her? It's such an unfair game changer. And she's so right, and that pisses her off more than anything.

Jerk friend of hers knows Maka can't resist a challenge. She's competitive almost to a fault. Maka always has a point to prove, and if her very maturity is coming into question - her very level of adult, of strength, for goodness sake - well, of course she's going to fight tooth and nail to defend it, regardless of the ache that's begun to chill her heart again.

Liz's hand is warm on her shoulder. "... Sorry. It's just- you know, my mom isn't coming, and I just wanted-"

"No," Maka interrupts, bricks falling into place. Her bones are steel and melting together, caging her hummingbird heart tight for safekeeping. "No, you're right. It's your wedding, Liz. You deserve to have people surrounding you who you love. I'm- it's not my moment. It's yours, and it's Tsubaki's, and I- I'm an _adult_ ," she says, her lip very much _not_ wobbling. "I can handle it."

If there is one person in the world who understands what it's like to chase after a wayward mother, it's Elizabeth Thompson. And it's all she really needs to give in and play nice. There are few things that can truly disarm Maka, that can extinguish her fighting spirit - and it's reminders of her own mother, miles away, with a new husband and an adorable kindergartener's art adorning her fridge. Because of course, _of course_ Maka knows what it's like to be left behind. She practically wrote the damn book on it.

They share a loaded look in the reflection of the mirror. If Liz notices her friend has begun crying, she politely ignores it. She shoves away from the sink, swears under her breath and kicks a bathroom stall.

Maka sniffles and turns the faucet on.

"He promised to play nice," Liz mutters, barely audible over the sound of rushing water and Maka's attempted even breathing. "I wouldn't have invited him if I thought he was going to try to hurt you again, Maka."

"It's not my business," she says automatically.

"I was mad at him for a long time, you know."

"I don't control your relationships, Liz."

The kicked stall door squeaks shut, and Liz's heels click as she ambles back toward her own sink. Maka looks at her from over her shoulder, watching her grit her teeth and check for smudged lipstick. Her tongue slides over her front teeth, but it's when she's running her fingers through her flat-ironed hair that she finally mutters, "Sorry."

_Sorry._

It's exactly what she'd wanted to hear, and somehow, it still doesn't soften the blow any. It's echoes of the past, a ghost of a week ago - _sorry, Maka. Sorry._

It's about time she starts acting 27 and leaves heartbroken 18 in the past.

Like. For real, this time. Play nice. For her friend's sake. For one of her best friend's wedding to her high school sweetheart, long term girlfriend, happily ever after and all that jazz. Just because her heart's been spoiled and romance is no longer on the table for Maka doesn't mean she has to damn it for everyone. Doesn't mean she has any right making the wedding party awkward just because she can't control her pettiness.

"Don't." Maka can't quite take the pity, can't quite take the loaded, heavy looks Liz keeps shooting her through too-long hair. Her hoop earrings catch the light just right and she's the most distracting, solemn looking thing she's seen in hours- somehow more desolate and despairing than her own piteous reflection. "It's fine, okay? I was being a brat. I can _play nice,_ too."

Liz rolls her eyes. "You still Facebook stalk him, you loser."

"Like you don't do the same to your exes!"

"Tsu's my impulse control," Liz says defensively, and just like that, the tension shatters. Drowns itself in the porcelain sink and spirals down the drain, and Maka twists the faucet off and watches the water twist and swirl until it's gone, and she's left staring at off-white porcelain, blinking back selfish tears.

_Courage,_ she thinks. _Nothing can hurt you if you don't give it the power to._

Fool her once, shame on him. Fool her twice, though - not in a million fucking years.


	12. on bended knee

**2008**

.

Getting re-accustomed to Soul being in her space isn't something she particularly has time for.

It is _jarring,_ making eye contact with him after all of these years, with all of the bad blood still curdling between them. Or, on _her end,_ rather, because apparently he has no qualms with sending her sad puppy looks across a room, or watching her walk, always a step and a half behind, melting her with those scalding eyes of his. She doesn't have to glance behind her to know he's staring; he's got laser-precision, a burning stare, and it would be impossible not to feel the way his eyes cook her from the inside out.

He's around again, so suddenly, very nearly out of nowhere, and Maka doesn't even have time to adjust to him. He's just _there_ , lingering, hands shoved into his pockets.

Doesn't mean she has any desire to talk to him, though. She'd vowed to play nice, after all. Holding a conversation with him - or, heaven forbid, having a heart-to-heart with the jackass - is certainly not in the contract, and Maka will be damned if she allows herself to open up to him again. Never again, and certainly not now, while she's tugging up her dress and trying hard to make it through this rehearsal dinner without jabbing her fork into the back of Blake's hand. There's just too much to focus on to compartmentalize her messy feelings for Soul.

Maka grabs for glass of wine and promptly knocks it back.

There's a clearing of a throat, scuffling of shoes, and then, " _Christ,_ Maka."

Misery loves company. And there's probably no more miserable a human than Soul Evans, so perhaps she's in good company. Maka groans and pushes her bangs back.

If she's going to make it through tonight, there's gonna need to be a whole lot more wine in front of her. Like, a toll. Only those who come bearing gifts are allowed to further heckle and frazzle her. Maka eyes him suspiciously, carefully sliding her glass back onto the table. "Go away, you tool."

He doesn't even grimace. "Ouch."

"I have enough reasons to pull out my hair without you here too, Soul," she says, very nearly hissing. If he were a smart man, he'd back off, throw his hands up and run with his tail between his legs like a good, scared little boy. But then again, this version of Soul is unfamiliar, a bright, shiny new model. Soul 2.0 doesn't quite have the dark stains under his eyes that betray his demons. "Shoo!"

Shrugging, he rubs his neck. "Aren't you supposed to be celebrating with the rest of them? It's a celebration, Maka. Leave the overthinking for later."

"And let Blake start a fist fight with Masamune?" She laughs, just from the sheer ridiculousness of it.

And here she'd been, assuming that Liz's family would be the dramatic ones of the bunch - fat chance, considering her mother hadn't bothered to come and nobody, sans said absent mommy, knows who Liz's dad is. And so, at the head of the Thompson end sits Dean Mortimer Jr (or _Kid,_ as he prefers), college bestfriend, babyfaced still, holding a polite conversation with Tsubaki's father. Even Patty seems to be on her best behavior, engaged in a rousing storytelling session with Tsubaki's kid cousin, Tsugumi.

It's adorable, really. What little turnout she has is supportive, so supportive, and when Maka looks at Soul there's gut-wrenching guilt pooling, clenching deep. _Selfish._

"Why'd you invite him?" Soul asks, shifting those dark eyes of his over to the man in question; Blake is a barely banked inferno from nearby, nose flared, clearly ready to throwdown over whatever poison the eldest Nakatsukasa sibling has decided to spit. "He's always been like this. Those two have never gotten along."

"Because he's Tsubaki's brother, and she's getting married?"

He grunts. "Doesn't make a damn difference if he's just going to start a fight. Tsu doesn't really look like she's having a good time."

Sweet Tsubaki, too kind to speak up against her family. She sinks back in her seat, lovely face strained, brow taut. It inspires Maka to pour herself another glass of wine and drown the urgent, foreboding sense of doom crawling up her spine. The warmth of the alcohol is soothing, in a makeshift, lazy sort of way, and something unfolds in the pit of her stomach, low and ancient.

Soul watches her tip the glass away from her lips. "Don't really think that's gonna help."

"Oh, what do you know?" she snarls, feeling looser and looser the longer the heat crawls up her cheeks. She must be rosy by now, two and a half glasses in, but Soul doesn't budge from his spot.

He does hook a brow at her, though. "I think you know better than anyone else how I'd know that. It's a temporary fix for a more permanent problem."

" _You_ had pot, not two glasses of wine. You had a lot of pot, if I remember correctly."

His shoulders peak, then fall. "Same outcome in the end."

The heat prickles even her eyes, now, and it only enrages her further. "What do you care, anyway," she says, huffing, voice thick and tinged with an irritating dampness that Soul seems to recognize all too well. The moment the worry hits his eyes she's slamming back her drink and downing what's left in her glass before shoving it at him. "If you'll excuse me, I have a rehearsal dinner to manage. Some of us have _responsibilities,_ you know, 'nd not ones that we can just opt out of at our earliest convenience!"

" _Maka."_

" _Go away,_ Soul!" she hollers over her shoulder, and if it's too loud, well, the Nakatsukasas will just have to forgive her. There are bigger fish to fry, and bigger fights to pick - or _defuse_ , rather - because Blake's looking particularly murderous, looming over Masamune's sleek shoulder, eyes like daggers, and the last thing anyone needs is a throwdown over the table of appetizers.

.

Liquid courage only gets her so far. The rate at which she'd consumed her booze catches up to her quickly, and sitting in the middle of a conversation is somehow more overwhelming than anything she's ever experienced before. Voices echo around her, but picking apart voices and making sense of the sequences of words just isn't in the cards. Conversation booms around her like thunder, and she feels a little lightning-struck, nursing her fourth glass precariously in her hands, too nervous to sip and worsen the haze.

Blinking owlishly, she glances between Blake, who has somehow lost the sleeves to his dress shirt in the measly two hours he's been at this damn dinner, and Liz, as she laces her fingers between her fiance's and makes a face like she's been sucking on a lemon. Ah, _what?_

It's too much. Words don't make sense anymore, and sitting here trying to decipher it all makes her head hurt.

"'Scuse," Maka mutters, shuffling back on her seat until the coast is clear and her legs are free.

Wobbling her way to the bathrooms is easy, and amidst all the shouting and conversation, nobody notices her leave. Her hands are useless, so Maka lifts a leg and kicks her way into the bathroom like a badass, because that's the only way she does anything. The swinging door shocks whoever is inside, and Maka marches forward, catching a blurry swatch of white hair on her radar.

" _Jesus,_ what the fuck-" There's frantic shuffling, and whatever urination had been happening piddles to a shy end.

Dummy. "Nothing I haven't seen," she says bluntly, then pivots to splash water on her face. Ah, sweet relief. At least the fire has been partially doused, and the shock of the chill clicks her brain back into place. Kind of.

Soul zips up and scowls at her through the mirror. "You know this is the men's room, right?"

She blinks sluggishly, then turns to stare at him over her shoulder for good measure. So it is. Huh. Those sure are some urinals. That really is Soul, looking disgruntled and decidedly pink, folding his arms across his chest. Hm. His shoulders seem broader than usual.

Wiiiine braaaain.

"I've seen your penis before," she slurs, squinting at him. "I've had it in _my mouth_. You were there. You know!"

The pink is undeniable now. Even with the floaty weightlessness and blurring everytime she turns her head, Soul's face is still definitely painted pink, and before she can catch up with her thoughts, there's a vague, heated moment where she wants to taste the color, wants to drag her tongue over the heated skin of his cheek and his throat and see if he tastes like bubblegum or whatever. Or like sweat, maybe. She just wants to soak up his warmth like a greedy little lizard and thrive off of it.

She splashes herself with water again and groans miserably.

"Having fun yet?" he asks dryly, ambling his way over to the sink three across from her. Ah, patient Soul, always leaving her just enough space to make her mistake. Always pinning her down with those sharp eyes of his, leaving her feeling helpless and alone, so close to the cusp of something else.

Maka snarls and shakes her hands off. "No! You know- I can't, not when _you're_ here!"

He grunts in response. "Yeah?"

Somehow it pisses her off more. With wet hands, it's hard to get a good grasp on the knobs of the sink, so she leaves it on full blast, regardless of the way the water splashes out of the off-white sink and dampens the front of her dress. Whatever, it's black anyway - sleek and black, and hell, if it's bad luck to wear black to a wedding then may god strike her down right here, right now, so that she may spare herself further embarrassment. "You- you're an asshole! A big jerkass, wh-who thinks he can just-"

"Yeah," he says again, solemnly. "Kinda wanted to talk to you about that."

"It takes you _ten years_ to be ready to talk about it?"

Oops, is that her voice, so shrill and screechy? The floaty feeling's begun to sink, and her body feels heavier and heavier. Maka doesn't like it. She would prefer the echo-y haze come back, please, because balancing is somehow more difficult than ever, and his shoulders are broad and are looking more and more like a pillow as time goes on.

He turns to face her. Stares her down, finally, and with all the wine buzzing through her system and warming her crumpled heart she's brave enough to face him, too. God, when did he get so tall? Has he always been this tall?

And then there's that stupid fucking nervous grin of his, annoyingly - _endearingly_ \- crooked, and, " _ **Dimples,**_ " she mutters miserably, because they're right there and just as cute as she remembered them to be. What a pretty-faced heartache this man is, no longer a boy, grown lean and full, chiseled Evans jaw and all.

Caught off guard, he swallows. "Uh?"

"Nothing!" But they're everything. Maka wants to punch them off his stupid attractive face. Or maybe kiss them. It's hard to tell. Overwhelming anger and hurt and nostalgia and misplaced, tipsy arousal are a dangerous combination, and she's never had very good impulse control.

Matters are only made worse when he leans over to switch the rushing faucet off. In the brief moment he stretches, the hem of his dress sleeve rises, and she gawks drunkenly at the bare skin of his wrist, tan and delicious, the hint of a dark tattoo peering over the fabric like a crescent-moon. Of course her stupid grunge-head ex-boyfriend had tattoos, _of course!_ And leave it to her, ever clingy, left-behind Maka to find the slightest hint of one interesting.

 _Interesting._ That's what she's going to call it. Anything else would be betrayal to her callous, burnt-out heart.

He tilts his head and glances at her. "D'you drive here?"

"Mmmm." Sure did. In her _car_. Because she's an _adult_ who owns her own car and lives in an apartment and _pays bills,_ Soul. Finished med school and everything, just like Mama always wanted. Isn't he proud? Isn't anybody?

It only takes him three steps to get over to the paper towel dispenser. "I'll take you home."

"I don't want you in my bed!"

Soul makes a muffled sort of cough. Even glances over his shoulder at her, eyes dark. "I didn't say I was going to invade your bed, Maka."

Of course not. He's just perfect now, isn't he? Goody two-shoes Soul doesn't even drink, stays sober just to play the hero and swoop his messy drunk ex off of her feat and into his waiting arms. Well, if he thinks it'll be that easy, he's got another thing coming.

It takes her twice the number of steps to stumble over to the paper towels, teetering like a bull in a china shop in her heels. Still, she catches his stare drifting to bare skin, her long legs (allegedly her best asset, especially in black pumps) and pokes him right in the collarbone indignantly. He jolts, and she pushes him aside to snatch her own inventory of paper towels and pats down the front of her dress. Oh, and maybe her hands, too. That might be a good idea.

Soul's rubbing the heel of his palm over his chest when he says, "Yeah, you're not driving."

"I'll call a cab," she says, stubbornly.

"Or I could just bring you back, free of charge."

"I'd rather walk!"

"You'd break an ankle," he deadpans. Fucker. "Just let me bring you back, huh? Take it as a good deed or somethin'. An overdue apology. I kinda- I mean, I _do_ want to talk to you 'bout some things."

Well, they're alone. Unless there's some rogue guest hiding in a bathroom stall, there's no eavesdroppers. What's so private that he couldn't tell her years ago, anyway?

"Then _talk,_ " she says.

His brows shoot up. "I'm not doing this in the men's bathroom, Maka. C'mon."

"I'm not going anywhere with you until you talk!" she snaps and stomps her feet like a very mature adult toddler. "You can't make me, you big bully, you can't just barge back into my life and expect me to just- to j-just go along with whatever you say because I miss you. I don't miss you!"

The room's begun spinning again, but that's okay, because it blurs his shape until he's a mash of colors, stark white and jet black, blood-red rapidly zooming into focus. Oh. Or maybe that's Soul, leaning in, and that warm, reassuring heat is his hand on her shoulder. That's… that's less okay, she thinks. But it makes the situation less dire, somehow, and keeps her from wobbling in her heels, but now her face feels hot and her eyes wet and nono _no_ , she's wearing eyeliner, dammit.

"You're being stupid," he says quietly. "You're in no condition to drive."

She sniffles. He's still blurry, but she's still unsure if it's due to the four glasses of wine or the fact that she's probably definitely crying a little now. "You're the stupid one! T-trapping me like this, again-!"

"I didn't give you the wine."

"You didn't drink!" she blurts damply, trembling. Ah- standing is too much, and he's right there, and fuck it, it's a moment of weakness and she just doesn't want to eat it on the men's bathroom floor. Who knows the last time it's been washed. His chest is just right there, and he's certainly not bothered by the mushiness of the world right now. "You- you _stayed sober,_ and you knew I'd be emotional because _you're here,_ so you just let me drink-"

"I- what?"

She snivels. "I _hate_ you," Maka says, then smushes her nose against his nice dress shirt. Good, she can snot it up sufficiently and leave her mark on him, too. "I hate you _so much_ , you don't even know how much I hate you, and I'm not going home with you just so you can get me naked-!"

The embrace shifts from support to something closer to a hug. Ah- but his arms are warm, and certainly more toned than they'd been all those years ago. Melting bonelessly into him is too easy, and in that moment Maka hates herself most of all. If she had the physical strength to shove him away she would, but her balance is off-kilter and she kind of feels woozy now anyways.

He rests his chin atop her head. "Wouldn't do that to you," he mutters. "Not that mean."

"- the _meanest!_ -"

They're swaying, now, and she's not sure who started it but it's happening, and she's too drunk to fight the motion of the ocean. Almost feels like being swaddled and rocked to sleep, and it's weirdly not as invalidating as sober Maka might find it. "This was not an elaborate scheme to fuck you, Maka."

It's a thousand degrees, and his chest is much sturdier than she's prepared to deal with. She wants to plow her hand past the buttons of his shirt and feel his heart, right between her fingers. Wants to crush it in her hand so that he'll understand, too, what it feels like to be strangled. But she doesn't, because skin isn't tissue paper and her nails are supposed to stay nice for tomorrow, dammit, and blood _stains_. Tearing into Soul Evans like some sort of harpy might not blow over well with the Nakatsukasa clan.

She just wants him to hurt, dammit. To understand.

(And she doesn't, too, in the weirdest, saddest way; she'd spent so many years loving this boy, so many months holding his face in her hands and kissing him through tears- she can't tear him apart, no matter how she hurts.)

"Who do you think you are," she splutters, mushing her face into his chest. She could bite him, maybe. "Wh-who do you think you are, cleaning up your act, being all high and mighty-"

His grip tightens around her. "Can't drink while I'm taking these meds."

Such a deep voice he has. With her face pressed up to him like this, it's like the meaning rumbles through her, from her nose to her toes, and, "Mmm?" she ends up humming, lilting to a confused pitch. Meds?

_Meds?_

Whatever had still been left, that bare hint of his old, high-strung self deflates, like he'd plucked the string of a guitar, and she squirms, chin pressed to his chest to blink suspiciously up at him. She's met with resigned acceptance, sleepy eyes that flutter as she presses her lips together. And then, dimples.

"C'mon," he mutters, carefully detangling himself from her, still one hand pressed carefully to her shoulder. "I'll drive."

.

Antidepressants.

"Here, wine-o," he calls, and then there's a water bottle lobbed toward her; she cradles it to her chest precariously, the condensation chilly on her bare collarbone. "Drink up. All of it, okay? It'll help."

_Antidepressants._

It's not just the wine that makes her stupid, apparently.

Twisting the cap off is difficult, but she manages, somehow, despite her damp hands and the pink way the grooves makes her skin ache. What's even harder, apparently, is aiming for her mouth, and she almost certainly circles the opening of the bottle with her lips in a strange way because Soul's got a teasing smirk now, but whatever, water is water, and Maka would really rather have a clear head, please, because _antidepressants_.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks through a mouthful, so it's more like _glubglubglubglhee?_ and a wet lap, again, as water leaks through the corners of her lips. She feels childish and stupid, even more so, as Soul sighs, takes a trip into the hotel bathroom and returns with a hand towel to toss at her, too. " _Urgh."_

How dumb can she be? Like really, seriously, she went to med school. A-and sure, mental health wasn't her specialty, but she should've been able to put two and two together, right? It all seems so clear in hindsight; he'd had all the signs, all the red flags - sleeping too much, _not sleeping enough,_ anxiety, lack of concentration, _loss of interest in pleasure or activities._ Suddenly, _suddenly_ , his waning interest in everything, _her included,_ and utmost disregard for graduation seems so obvious.

And she was supposed to be the smart one. She went to school for this kind of stuff, dammit. Or… not this exact branch, but still- she'd read the chapters in college, had studied enough to have realized it, even years later, but no. Instead, she'd been so caught up in her own ache, her own heartbreak, and had been too self-centered to see past her own selfish woes. Spiteful Maka could only see the damage on her end, the strain of being pushed aside, let go so easily.

She pinches her lips together now and swallows. Takes a few more gulps, too, until the bottle's empty. If only the poison would dilute more quickly. This is probably a conversation better had with a clear head, and while the drive over had certainly sobered her up some, there is still work left to be done. Finishing her meal to-go had been a good idea, though, and at least the room isn't spinning quite so badly anymore. At least she can safely piece together Soul's words and make sense of them.

Mostly make sense of them. She still hangs onto every last syllable, annoyingly so, as if waiting with bated breath for him to finish. Still stares at his mouth, as if she can read his lips.

Man, those lips. He'd done _things_ to her with those lips, once upon a time. That mouth had been the subject of more than a few dreams of hers, had been his tool to bring her such toe-curling pleasure while they played the waiting game and staved off penetration. If she really thinks about it, drunk Maka can almost remember the way his tongue had felt on the crease of her thigh, her hipbone, the slick heat that'd nearly melted her-

 _Inappropriate!_ Stupid wine, making her _lewd_. Depressed or not, he is still her ex boyfriend, and she is still angry, dammit. The booze just makes her slow on the uptake, and feelings are sort of floaty and fuzzy right now. Everything blurs together. Even the guilt.

"How long?" she finally squeaks out.

He shrugs, then takes a polite seat on the hotel couch, kicking his shoes off. He'd plopped her down on the bed when he'd helped lead her in, fifteen minutes ago, and Maka feels almost bad for assuming this had all been an elaborate scheme to get her out of her dress. Even now, he's still minding his distance, never touching her unless absolutely necessary.

"Soul."

"'Bout three years now?" he says to the ceiling. He cracks his neck, then, and melts back into the seat, mumbling under his breath. "They kept fucking with my dosage, and they switched me through different prescriptions for a while until they found one that worked."

"When'd you start?"

"When I was twenty-two." He takes a deep, cleansing breath and then looks at her thoughtfully. "Wes convinced me to talk to someone 'bout it while we were living together. Guess he got sick of watching me self-medicate with pot. Sat me down and really helped me lay all my cards on the table. I was sick of feeling fucky, too."

Ah. And there'd been _that,_ too. The Soul she'd dated towards the end was high more often than not- in fact, the only time she can really remember him not flying high as a kite were the few times they were intimate. In those moments, he'd been himself - fidgety, balled-up Soul, even as he'd held her in his arms and found it in him to help her over the edge. Still found it in him to be comforting, miraculously, against all odds.

Her eyes burn again. " _Soul."_

"It's not an excuse," he admits. "'Cause I still hurt you, 'nd like, I get that. Just thought you deserved a reason, Maka. If anyone deserves an explanation, it's you."

"So," she begins, clenching and unclenching her fingers, "so, you… dumped me because you were tired?"

His expression pinches. "I, uh. Didn't want to keep dragging you down."

" _What?"_

"You were destined for a lot of good," Soul says, eyes still on her, heart-breakingly honest. He's not bound by his demons, not washed over with the heady heat and uselessness of the booze - he's just Soul, and he's finally found his words. "And I wasn't really in any sort of place to support you. I just- god, Maka, I was in a bad place, and you-"

"I wanted you with me," she says fearlessly. "I would've given anything to keep you, Soul. I loved you so much I didn't know what to do with myself."

He smiles then, tight lipped, sad. "I know."

Maka's hands press to her damp lap, towel be damned, and she squints to better see him. He'd flicked the hall lamp on, at least, but hotels have a certain way about amplifying the impossible darkness of 10 PM, and it's ridiculous, how little of him she can make out. She wants to read his expression, overanalyze the way his brows crease, the way he leans forward, too, even without shaggy hair to hide behind. His hair practically glows, the only bright thing among them, and that strange, melancholic smile that she's still too sluggish to fully read.

Annoying. The water's not working fast enough. Reading is all she's really good at, too. "What do you mean _you know?_ "

Soul shrugs. Unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up, sighing, shyly, and she strains to watch the muscles in his forearms in the dark night. Oh, if that lamp were only a little less dim, she might be able to make out the shape of that tattoo she'd spied earlier. Such a nosy, nosy girl.

"I couldn't let you throw it all away," he says, finally, after a long, pregnant pause.

Wine be damned, but- no, no way, had he actually taken that choice away from her and made it himself? "You don't get to make that decision for me!" she gasps, very suddenly enraged, shifting so easily between passive, solemn tipsy and fiery righteousness. This, _this_ is better; Maka _knows_ this, knows how to work through blood-burning anger and stubborn fury, with gritted teeth and tight fists and her everlong fighting spirit.

He at least has the grace to look guilty, now. There's that kicked puppy again, drooping beneath her imposing figure; Maka's bounded to her feet by now, stance firm, hands shaking at her sides.

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

" _ **You could have asked me!"**_ she shrieks.

"You never listen to reason," says Soul, bitterly. " _Never._ Even if I had the balls to tell you back then, you would've still forced me to come in that stubborn way of yours. College would have been twice as hard with me slumming it up in your apartment, sleeping all day, unable to hold a _fucking_ _job_ because I couldn't get out of bed."

Tipsy or not, there's not a damn force in the world that can stop her from stomping over to him. He's right in her warpath but he doesn't even budge, just stares at her, ready to accept judgement. Twenty-eight year old Soul wears his damage like a suit of armor, and it's so foreign to her; she's expecting indignance, somehow, more offense, but he's just so deeply resigned that it pisses her off. When Mama and Papa fought, her father had been so quick to point the finger, too, to point out that he wasn't in the wrong, not really, not while his wife was so cold and calculating- but Soul's not like that. Soul is almost too quick to own up to his own level of suck.

So she stops in front of him, trembling, furious. He looks up at her, expression blank but eyes blown wide. There's too much honesty there. It makes her cry. His confession is more sobering than that damn water bottle.

He knows he fucked up, and yet he did it anyway. What a twisted, self-sacrificing _bastard._ How much more ass backwards can he get?

"Do you have any idea," she starts, falsely quiet, heart pounding, "any idea _at all_ how hard it was for me?"

Soul doesn't even blink. "I thought you'd get over it."

"It?"

" _Me,"_ he says finally, grandly. "You'd find another guy who could make you happy without tearing himself apart to do it. Or, fuck- someone who was even half as smart and driven as you were, who could keep up with you."

"But I wanted _you!_ "

He does thaw, though, the longer she cries. And up close, she can finally make out his features; through the leftover lull of the wine and the dim hall light, she can see the lines in his face, exhausted features that have been weathered through years of carrying this sort of weight. This impossible asshole had made himself out to be the bad guy in order to better her life. Or… or what he thought would better her life, anyway.

And he breathes in. "I-"

"No!" she gasps, grabbing his face in her hands. He flails for a moment, before letting her man-handle him, and sits pliantly as she sucks in a breath herself, waiting patiently. "No, you listen to me, you stupid, stupid jerk! I didn't want anyone else. I've _never_ wanted anyone else, do you understand? I'd- there was never anyone else, even after everything, I'd still- you were still-!"

His cheeks are so warm in her hands. His hands over hers, though, are even warmer. "You were going away to college."

"Liz said you didn't _feel it_ when you were with her, didn't she?"

Ah, now his cheeks are even warmer. He sputters for a moment. "I don't see how that's relevant-"

" _No one else,_ " she repeats, shaking him gently. Or, uh, what she thinks is gently. He winces, and his throat moves in that interesting, distracting way, and- Adam's Apples really should not be so _compelling_ , goodness. "I couldn't- I tried, but-"

It's so clear Soul wants to know nothing about her sexual exploits post their relationship, and his hands tighten on hers, loosen her grasp and slide her palms down to sit warmly on his shoulders instead. But he has to know, doesn't he? If there's anyone who understands it, the offsetting disinterest in anyone but- but him, apparently, and his hands and thighs and butt and _tongue_.

Her grip tightens around his shoulders. "I said your name."

Soul makes a gruff, questioning noise. "Wh-?"

"I said your name, you-! I couldn't have a boyfriend because I didn't care about them the same way I cared about you, even though you'd-!" It's so hard to explain, and her tongue feels thick and useless, unable to put the words into any sort of coherent sentence. A shame, for a girl who so prides herself on her literacy. "And when I tried, I just, you know, thought if I closed my eyes it would be fine, and if I got it over with I'd stop being so hung up over you, but I-"

Hands. On her face. Oh, he's touching her, and he hasn't- other than bracing her wobbly booze legs, he hasn't _touched her_ in years, and it sort of makes her want to cry and bite him at the same time. He still treats her as if she's spun glass, still uses only gentle pressure, the softest pads of his fingers to brush away her messy, liner-bled tears.

"You said _my name,_ " he repeats, but there's a certain gravel to his voice that really makes the words sink in. Pleased, almost? Is he pleased? Because she can't tell if she is anymore. "Maka, you-"

"It was only once," she mutters, still unable to stop herself. "I'd been drinking, and I was so fed up with everything, and he was a musician, a-and he called me _baby_ and kept asking if I was okay, and I just-! It wasn't anything like being with you, but I was just so lonely and I wanted to stop thinking about you all of the time, so, so-"

Wine makes her too honest. Maybe even Soul can tell that, because he cradles her face in his hands and squishes her cheeks, and it keeps her from admitting anything more - like that it'd been _bad,_ and she'd cried after, had sworn off dating and sex from that point on because there was no point, everything reminded her of him. There was no point, because she didn't feel it unless it was him, and he didn't want her anymore.

"Shhh, hey, **hey** ," Soul murmurs, but his hands are shaking. "It's okay. _Easy._ "

When did he start standing? It's harder to reach his shoulders than she'd anticipated. Oh. Probably has something to do with the fact that she's not wearing her shoes anymore. Maka wiggles her cold toes distractedly, feeling full and warm and stupid and angry, still, dammit.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I didn't want anyone else," Maka mutters dejectedly. "I would have found a way to make it work. I could have helped you, too."

"I'm _sorry._ "

She sniffles, then drops her hands to scrub at her face instead. They come back smudged, and Maka spends an elongated, drunken moment mourning the fate of her eyeliner. Racoon eyes are hardly cute, and here she'd been, thinking all these years that if she got the chance to see Soul Evans again she'd be carefully put together, with flat-ironed hair and sharp eyeliner as she told him exactly where he could _shove it-_

But reality is tricky sometimes. Can't be foreseen. And she might be a tipsy, inky mess, but he's still looking at her so warmly that she think she might combust. That's what happens, right, when you mix fire and gasoline? Surely he's one and she's the other, and… oh, thinking is still too hard. Wine bad.

"You're _always_ sorry," Maka says, bitterly.

"Mmm," he hums, then cautiously runs his fingers through her hair.

"I'm still angry at you."

"That's fine. I deserve it."

She finds herself blinking up at him damply, wondering if maybe he'll listen to her this time, if maybe he'll take her word for it, because she kind of thinks she knows _exactly_ where he could _shove it._ The years have been kind, despite the love-lost turmoil. He ages like a fine wine.

Uuugh.

No. No more wine.


	13. truly madly deeply

**2008**

.

There is something special about waking up to him.

Early-morning light filters in through the sheer curtains as she rolls onto her side, and he's almost glowing there on the hotel carpet, tucked beneath a thin blanket, socked feet poking out the bottom. He's tall, knees and toes peering out from beneath his covers, arms tucked beneath his head. And he's serene, nearly, face so lax and free of the stress of day, of last night, merely seven-or-so hours ago, when he'd come clean so bravely.

He'd had her drunk, in his bed, feeling emotional and vulnerable and he'd still taken the couch.

If the wedding wasn't lulling her, she might be a little angry at herself for such a flip-flop. A day ago, she'd been avoiding eye contact. A year ago - years ago, _multiple_ years, even - she'd cursed his name, rued the day she ever let Soul Evans inside her heart.

But he's pretty. And he doesn't even snore, just blinks groggily up at her through the blinding beam of daylight, reaching lazily for the alarm clock, clambering to his knees.

There is something special about waking up to him. Even more than that, though, there's something special about the quiet, thoughtful way he smiles at her through sleepy eyes and intense bedhead. Something magical in the way her heart seems to spread wings and attempt to fly away.

.

"How's Blair?"

Maka leans forward and turns the volume up on the radio. It feels almost disgustingly nostalgic, and she's half tempted to kick her feet up on the dashboard, roll the windows down and sing along, but it's city driving at Early O'Clock and maybe, just maybe she shouldn't push their newfound calm too quickly. As it is, Soul's hands are delightfully unbothered as they hold the steering wheel, and she'd watched him down both a balanced breakfast and his meds, so pushing the envelope so soon would be silly.

But that doesn't mean she can't try to catch up. Ten years is a long time to hate someone. Even longer to go without petting his cute cat.

"Little brat had kittens," he says, scowling, but can't keep the laugh out of his voice as Maka gasps and covers her mouth. "I swear she's some sort of escape artist. No matter what I do she finds a way to get out. My neighbors are probably going to start complaining here pretty soon if I can't keep a handle on my damn cat."

A kitty on the move. Maka leans back into Soul's leather seats and sighs contently. "You kept her, then?"

He shouldn't take his eyes off the road, but he's always been bad about not looking at her. She catches him sneaking a peek, red eyes bright beneath his snowy lashes, and though there's heat flooding her face, she slaps his shoulder and scolds him. It's routine, keeping him in line, playfully nagging him, and his resulting grunt and grouching pout is the same. They are Soul and Maka again, teasing and complaining, eye-rolling and head-shaking, and it's comforting, somehow. Eases her into a refreshing sense of calm, and even Rihanna's breakup ballad blasting through Soul's stereo can't harsh her vibe.

_Take a bow, take a bow._

_Cathartic._ That's the word she's looking for. Closure to a decade-old heartache. A well-needed cauterization to her wound, and somehow, she'd even reemerged with a friend of sorts. Because they're friendly now, right? This is what they are doing, ribbing one another good-naturedly? Soul, driving her back to her apartment to grab her things before they both beeline to the wedding, before Liz has both of their heads on a silver platter.

"I thought you didn't want a pet?" she asks then, cheekily. Maka feels inspired by the way, even now, he keeps glancing over at her, as if he can't believe she's actually here, in the passenger seat of his car. It fills her with an euphoric, fulfilling sort of victory.

Soul presses his lips together, flicks on his blinker and turns into her driveway. "Never said that."

"You definitely implied it, you weenie."

" _Weenie,"_ he repeats incredulously, brows raised.

Her pink cheeks are certainly not victim of his expression. Because Maka Albarn certainly does not sit and reminisce on the only other time she's ever seen her ex boyfriend's expression so lax, never, _never_ \- but he'd been _so hot,_ beneath her palms, _throbbing in her mouth_ -

"You know what I mean!" she shrieks, shaking her head. _Where did that even come from?_

He shakes his head and puts the car into park. "You pry too much."

"Soul, come on."

Sighing, he turns to face her, and she's reminded of that night in her childhood driveway, Mama lingering in the doorway, the porch light the only spotlight Soul's ever felt comfortable performing under. "She was important to you, Maka. 'Course I kept her. Besides, it was uh, kind of lonely, you know, without you around, and-"

Freight train Albarn, even in the face of such chilling revelations. "You kept her because of me?"

Nervous Soul is back. He's still a little bit camera shy, and nibbles his lip in that distracting way of his as he contemplates her question. His hands drum on the steering wheel, eyes rising to the car roof, and then he blurts, "She reminded me of you," as if it isn't absolutely the saddest thing she's ever heard. Before she even has the time to process that little confession, he's glancing at her, bottom lip rosy beneath the points of his teeth, and she might as well be naked.

She should _not_ be turned on right now. She hasn't felt like this because of another living, breathing person in years, and he just- a bite of his lip, really? _That's_ what does it for her? Here she'd been, feeling sorry, almost a little bit unreasonably angry, and then _latent arousal?_

Maka kicks the car door open. Whether it's a blatant escape or a need for a breath of fresh air is undetermined.

.

Needless to say, the attraction catches her off guard.

At seventeen, she had never truly understood what Liz had meant when she said Soul hadn't felt it with her, that he wasn't really into boys or girls, because, _what?_ As a teenager, she'd been so blissfully unaware of things like sexuality and attraction, so caught up, annoyingly, in fluttery, distracting feelings for her neighbor to notice her own blatant disinterest in anyone else, either. She blames her upbringing, sometimes, mostly her papa, who so normalized being attracted to anything breathing in a short skirt. More than anything else, though, she blames television, media, the boyband craze, a young Britbrit in crop tops dropping jaws.

It wasn't until he was gone that she realized the two of them were one in the same. Because very suddenly, it was clear that she wasn't really into boys _or_ girls, either. When it was clear it wasn't just her love-lost heart, aching for someone she couldn't have or trust, that it was just she didn't feel it, either, well- there had been years of denial that followed, angry years where she'd tried her hardest to feel something, too, just out of spite. Kissing a pretty-eyed boy in the back of a college party, uncomfortably, awkwardly. Holding hands with Anya Hepburn her Sophomore year, bored, indifferent and feeling _terrible_ for it.

Maka swallows the misplaced attraction and watches Eruka part Liz's long, golden hair. It's not fair, she thinks, to be so blindsided by it, after so long. She'd still felt latent romantic feelings for him, of course, through the years - lingering, eerie, in that sad, lonely sort of way she'd worked hard to burn away.

But the tight coil of heat, sinking low in her gut, still, even hours after she's practically salivated over a bitten lip, _of all things!_ Now, because they'd talked? Because, because- she is still angry, certainly, obviously, just no longer in the overwhelming, going-to-clock-him-between-the-eyes sort of way. More in the bitter, displeased sort of way, churning in her chest, a sour sort of aftertaste that keeps warring with the devastating reminder that she'd wanted to kiss him.

 _More than just kiss him,_ she thinks, dejected. Who knew all it took to relight her fire was one late-night heart-to-heart. She'd fallen asleep to the sound of his voice, for goodness sake, with one hand flung over, outstretched, reaching for him.

And he hadn't touched her. Even in the morning, he'd let her take the first shower, looking delightfully ruffled by sleep, shoulders broad in the worn-cotton of his sleep shirt. Soul had minded his distance so well - almost _too well_ \- and it only makes the burn sink deeper. _Go on and take a bow,_ because she is officially hopeless, a starry-eyed teenager again, only this time she's better prepared to deal with the real world.

So an adult. An adult who can't seem to stop thinking about her ex-boyfriend's _mouth_.

"Wake _up,_ sleepsalot," Liz says, jolting her out of her reverie. "You look like a zombie. Concealer is your friend, lady."

"Sorry," Maka says mindlessly.

She shrugs, then flinches, dropping her hand; perhaps nervous nail-biting is not the best idea for a bride-to-be. "Eh, don't apologize to me, long as you spill the beans."

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you leave with my good friend Soul. You know, the guy you were pissed at me for inviting." Her grin has the hair on the back of Maka's neck standing up, and she splutters for a moment, grappling for a sense of control. "Care to share?"

"I-" she flails for a moment, madly, tugging on the ends of her hair; there's no way to swerve effectively and blame her rosy cheeks on a heavy-handed application of rouge while she's still barefaced, freckles and all. "He drove me back! I'd been drinking-"

"Oh, I _know_ you'd been drinking. Which brings me to my next question," Liz says, leaning forward, and Eruka scowls behind her, still attempting, valiantly, to do something with Liz's curtain of blonde hair. "Did he behave himself?"

Talk about mixed signals.

Combing her fingers through her hair instead, Maka shifts her weight, kitten-heel to kitten-heel, debating on which direction to take this. On the one hand, she could deny, because nothing had truthfully happend worth spilling - other than Soul finally telling her his whole truth, but something tells her that's not what put that eager spark in Liz's eyes. Surely she wants the dirty details, retellings of Soul ravishing her, or Maka ravishing him, but- not, because she'd been drinking?

Maka stares. Liz doesn't back down. "... We talked."

"And Soul kept his hands to himself?"

"I'm not his girlfriend, Liz."

At that, she snorts. "You're not naive enough to think people don't hook up outside of relationships, Albarn. C'mon. As much as I want to know what went down - and trust me, _everybody_ wants to know the end of this decade-long _soap opera_ \- if he put the moves on you while you were too drunk to tell up from down, I'd have to kick his ass. Wedding gown or otherwise."

Entirely unsure if she's comforted by such a promise, Maka instead focuses on the most offensive (and embarrassing) part of Liz's statement. "My life is not a soap opera," she insists, indignantly, pressing her lips together. "I was-"

" _Heartbroken,_ " Liz finishes, expression sobering. "Yeah. I know."

What a heavy, loaded stare. Elizabeth Thompson might be a five-foot-seven bundle of tenacity and blonde-haired, traffic-stopping beauty, but her eyes are like steel. There's a hardness there, wise beyond her twenty-eight years, deeper than flippant disregard for previous boundaries would assumptively allow. Aged, weary, honest, and sometimes Maka wonders if Tsubaki tastes gunpowder when she kisses her, because that girl is a weapon, surely. Such hard edges in her eyes tell stories, and it's always been a little unnerving, even for iron-willed Maka.

So Maka swallows and tries to grow up a little. Tries to face it without losing her nerve, without backing away and scoffing about word choice or something along those lines. She is not twenty-seven going on seventeen, not anymore.

"We talked," Maka says again.

"I sure hope you did."

There's probably nothing she could tell Liz that she doesn't already know. Maka's the college graduate here, but perhaps there are some things textbooks can't teach. "I'm still upset with him."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you," Liz sighs, melting back into her seat, finally. The street-hardened warrior has donned her hood, again, and instead Maka's faced with an anxious bride-to-be, scratching her cheek and staring pointedly at the ceiling. Blue-gray steel is still _steel_ all the same, though, and maybe even through time, some things will just always stay the same.

She's distracted again. Brain floating somewhere in the stratosphere, overthinking, per usual, putting too much mind-power into contemplating why now, exactly, the lens-flare of attraction has chosen to blindside her.

"Maka."

That is her name, isn't it? Some things stay the same. She is _Maka_ , headstrong bookworm, workaholic, aspiring people-pleaser, still stupid in love with a sleepy-eyed boy with music written in his very soul. It seems no amount of age will loosen that tether. She doesn't feel it with anyone, just Soul and his morning-dawn eyes, shy smiles and warm hands.

"I'm gonna check on Tsu," she says, finally blinking back that morning-after haze.

Liz winces as Eruka pins her hair back. "Kiss her good luck for me. She'll need it. Don't forget, though - you're next in line for punishment."

.

Blake is, predictably, shouting.

But it's almost cute, watching him fuss over his best friend like a mother hen. Whenever a flower strays from Tsubaki's careful updo he flails, shouting at Soul, his unfortunate right-hand man, to hit him up with the goods, there are operations to be done, loser. And Soul, for all of his eye-rolling and heavy sighing, plays the part dutifully, shooting the bride a half-smile every time she politely tries to wave her self-appointed hairdresser away.

"It's fine!" she insists, just as Maka nudges the door shut behind her. "Really, my hair is so thick, some are bound to fall out-"

"It's a _look,_ " Blake says, sounding scandalized. "D'you think we could, like, _sticky-paste_ them in?"

"Your damage control says no," says Soul, as he carefully tucks pink petals behind her ear. It brings out the blushing eagerness of her cheeks, and rosy-faced Tsubaki is somehow even lovelier than ordinary Tsubaki- and there is nothing ordinary about ordinary Tsu. If Liz is startlingly beautiful, with her dark makeup and ear piercings and long legs, her wife-to-be is the slow-burn lovely, soft cheeks and long lashes and willowy limbs.

She glances up and they meet eyes. Tsubaki brightens, somehow, as if she weren't already a singular, twinkling star, and raises her grabby-hands in her direction. "Maka!"

Pretending not to be delighted by the look on Soul's face is such a difficult task. As it is, she can't keep herself from noticing, or taking inventory of the excited way he glances over, too, as if there's nowhere else for him to reach but her, his true north. His whole face lights up, and then he tries to tamp it down, as if embarrassed by the brightness of his eyes. Silly. Despite her best efforts, she cracks a little smile, too, and laughs through the sheer absurdity of it all.

Maybe he's been thinking about her, too. Maybe there's a friendship worth salvaging after all.

"Ew," Blake groans, waving a pin at them. "Take that outside. _Gross._ I could glue the flowers into Tsu's hair with the amount of _gooey feelings_ wafting between the two of you."

 _Wafting._ She balks, halted, still three-steps from the entrance/exit. "You're gross," she retorts, very maturely.

" _You're_ eye-humping my pin slave," Blake says, then scowls at her for good measure. "Either come put him out of his deprived misery and settle the score once and for all or get out, pigtails. You're a distraction."

She hasn't worn pigtails since she was a teenager, but old habits die hard, and it's been her damn nickname for as long as she can remember. Belligerently, she crosses her arms over her chest and huffs at him. "I'm _here_ to deliver a message to Tsubaki, thank you very much," Maka says, very seriously, and strides over to press a very light kiss on Tsubaki's forehead. "For good luck, from your future wife."

"She gets sugar and Soul doesn't?"

Maka will not blush. "Liz did not send kisses his way."

Tsubaki sighs happily, then pats Maka's hand. "Thank you. The dress looks lovely on you. I'm glad everything worked out in the end."

 _Almost._ Her dress is hemmed, and she's not drowning in pink silk, despite the gaudy, oversized flower embellishment on the one strap, but there's still just one more thing that needs to be settled, and it's not her turn in the makeup chair.

 _Once and for all,_ she needs to clear the air, and when Soul glances at her, Maka nudges her head toward the door. And even after all of these years, they can still communicate so wordlessly - Maka reads his initial indecision over leaving Blake alone with the paramount task of not ruining Tsubaki's hair and raises her brows, then he goes as far as biting his lip before that hesitant bobbing of his throat irons out. Suddenly, he's ten thousand degrees, practically a sun, and the heated weight of her unasked question is mirrored in his laser-sharp stare.

"Bout time," Blake says, rolling his eyes. Tsubaki's mother takes Soul's place at her daughter's side as Maka slips out the door with her ex-boyfriend. Pink burns all to way to the very tips of his ears.

.

"So," he says, falling into step alongside her.

" _So."_

"You sleep alright?"

She is weightless. Like her heart has wings, fluttering about in her chest without restraint, and Maka could almost laugh from the sheer relief of it. To be so close to him, to feel his knuckles brush hers without getting caught between the urge to cry and the instinct to scream - it's just freeing, the sweetest closure, and if her mother would only call more than just on the major holidays, Maka thinks her teenage self would be immensely pleased. At seventeen, eighteen, everything had felt so important, imposing, immediate - she's sort of exhausted just thinking about it.

But she does not have time for small talk. Not while he's so near, not while she's unsure of where his future will lead him - and if, more importantly, somehow, if she's in it, too. If perhaps maybe there's a way to be in his life without building her own around it, and vise-versa.

"Mmm," she hums, then grabs the sleeve of his jacket and stops. He pauses, then turns to face her. "Soul, what're your plans?"

He offers a crooked grin. "We're doing this again, so soon?"

Her wings spread to full span, and she will never be flightless again. Not with the way he's looking at her. Not with the way she wants to press her hands to his face and kiss that annoyingly adorable dimple. "I thought we could be friends again, so, I mean- if this is going to be a long-distance sort of thing, I'd like to plan ahead."

Warm, soft fingers replace the smooth fabric of his sleeve. Ah. She blinks back her surprise and forces courage through every pore.

"You always were all business," he says, fondly. "Thought we were already _friends_."

Idiot. They need to _discuss_ things, so that they don't simultaneously implode again. Miscommunication and doubt have destroyed them once, and she will be damned if she lets something this good slip through her fingers again. _His_ hands are warmer than any ghost, and well, he's sort of cuter at twenty-eight than he'd been at eighteen anyway. Her boy's grown into himself, and that teasing lilt to his tone just begs to be smooched away.

 _Friends,_ though. Friends first. They must rebuild from the ground up.

"Are we friends?" she asks. "Because if that's what we are, I need to know. You need to be clear with me, or else I'm going to get the wrong idea, and-"

He squeezes her hand. "You, the wrong idea? Why, _never._ "

" _Soul."_

His lips are softer than she remembers. Less chapped, perhaps, as they brush lightly over the curve of her knuckles in a reverent promise. Such gentleness from a mouth so capable of damage, from lips that guard such sharp, interesting teeth, and a smart, talented tongue. He presses a kiss to each finger, slow and steady, never once taking his eyes off of her, and weak-kneed doesn't even begin to cover it.

Steam could be coiling out of her ears and she wouldn't even be surprised. Soul Evans is almost stupidly pretty in the strangest ways, with hot, dark eyes and a certain dangerous, misguided appeal to him. Beneath all of that snarl and carefully-measured indifference is an honest heart, unbridled loyalty - and beneath that goddamned suit are his legs and ass and hips, dotted with freckles, and despite her best efforts, she can still remember how they'd felt pinned beneath her palms.

It's too much. Faintly, she hears the sound of a kettle whistling in the back of her head, and blurts, " _Friends?"_ almost squeakily.

He raises his brows. "Is that what you want?"

"I _want_ to be on the same page."

His thumb brushes along the back of her hand leisurely. Soul seems almost too pleased with the arrangement, perfectly happy stroking her like a cat, grinning as she purrs. "I want whatever you want, Maka."

Some things never change. It seems he'll never have the courage to come forth and ask for what he wants. "Friends, then," she says, then grasps the lapels of his jacket, because grown-up Soul in a suit is a dream she's only dared to envision in her loneliest nights, and tugs him down to her level.

 _Friends,_ then. Whatever that means for them.

Soul's hands on her waist are the only confirmation she needs that he's on her same wavelength, and Maka slips her tongue between his lips and satisfies about a thousand misplaced daydreams in a single, revolutionary moment. The world stops turning, just for a second, a breath-taking wave of her white flag, and then time ticks back into place and she's got her hands in his hair.

.

Like horny teenagers, they scamper their way into an empty room, taking breaks along the way to press one another against a wall, as if any moment spent where they're not touching is a moment wasted. It's hard to think clearly while Soul's teeth are on her neck, leaving long-overdue hickies all over, but somehow reason prevails, and Maka summons enough brain function to kick open a door, drag Soul in, and lock it behind her.

And they're opposing ends of a magnet. It's impossible to keep herself from touching him, from quite literally hiking her bridesmaid dress up to her hips and jumping, linking her ankles around his hips and swallowing his gasp of surprise.

"Mmmh," he muffles, stumbling back before stepping forward, pinning her to the wall. " _Maka,"_ he breathes then, grinding slowly into her.

Every waking nerve has been set ablaze, and if she doesn't feel him soon she might just cry. He leaves a trail of kisses along her jaw, down her neck, and she bucks her hips helplessly once he takes to sampling her collarbones, teeth and tongue and all.

Anyone else and she might find it gross. But he's Soul, and there's never been anyone else for her but him, and it's been ten years since she's had good sex, so sue her for being over-excitable. He certainly has no complaints when she pulls his hair and undulates against him, trying desperately to gain enough leverage to work herself against that hard interesting _something_ beneath his trousers.

There should be a pretty word for it. There isn't. His dick. His _cock_. It all sounds so harsh and porny to her, and it shouldn't, because he's _just Soul,_ and _oooh-_ working against it is even better than she remembered. Through the thin lace of her panties, she can almost feel the shape of him, can almost get the right amount of pressure and friction, if she could just get him a little higher, maybe-

She can't finish a thought. _Christ._

There is nothing but him, and his hands, clutching her hips so desperately she think she might bruise. Soul and his mouth, his wild, hand-tousled hair and his _penis_ (not better, _still not better,_ but a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet and she wants to ride him like a damn show pony, so _whatever_ ) and everything, _his_ everything, and Maka cries out when one of those magic hands sinks down to bunch her dress up around her waist.

Each finger is delicate. He trails his way along the fair skin of her stomach, pale, virgin skin that has scarcely seen the light of day. Then, finally, he sinks lower, those long, talented digits slipping past the lace of her undergarments until he's right there, where's she's slick and hot and he melts within her.

"Fuck," he swears into her neck. She whimpers and leans her head back against the wall, hips still rolling, eagerly trying to work herself off on any part of him he'll offer. "Maybe we should slow down, or-"

Forget flowery words. She can't do it, not while her blood burns and her pulse throbs in time with her drumming heartbeat, and she feels it this time, the need to be with him, body and soul. " _Please_ ," she practically begs, and something in her tone seems to break him, because he relents and sinks another finger within, knuckle-deep, and it's so good, being with him. He's so good, even though he's still fully dressed and she's still trying to ride his fingers like it's her god-given job. Release is so close, and she's right there, trying to claw her way through the tide, trying to burst free and catch her breath. "Please, please, _please,_ I don't care, _I love you,_ we can compromise and figure something out, j-just-"

He drops her, just for a moment, and the world is meaningless pudding beneath her feet. Her jelly-legged confusion is short lived, because then her _friend_ is dropping to his knees, slipping her damp panties down her legs and shooting her a completely _predatory_ grin.

Soul's absurdly attractive framed by her thighs. Remaining vertical isn't so tough once he's shouldered his way between her legs, supporting her weight, and his mouth is as distractingly provocative as ever as he licks his lips. She feels bad for just a second, contemplating the difference in pleasure, as he services her, mouth rendering her stupid and boneless, but then _he_ moans, too, despite having his face ridden. His lashes flicker, snow-white, soft like dandelion fuzz as he meets her eye, and something passes between them wordlessly.

Then Soul shuts his eyes and moans again. Really moans, deep in his chest, and the dig of his fingertips into her thigh is almost possessive, and fuck it, Maka melts, one palm mashed against the wall for support while the other wrecks havoc in his previously-styled hair. She doesn't like this gelled-back substitute anyway - _some things stay the same,_ and Soul isn't the same without his bedhead and molten eyes.

She wants to say more, wants to clear the air, perhaps give a bit more attention to the fact that she'd just blurted her love for him, despite everything else, and his answer had been to drop to his knees and lick her real slow, but it's hard, putting any of her jumbled thoughts into words. She sighs instead, eyelids fluttering as Soul reads her so effortlessly, the only study she's ever seen him devote himself to fully. His tongue is warm on her clit, licking a slow, deliberate circle just shy of where she needs him, and she keens, whimpering, pleading, "Soul, please."

It's hard to be angry when he's playing tricks with his tongue. Smart, smart tongue, just a little too talented for its own good. She comes beneath it, curling into him, heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird, ready to take flight. Maka breaks, and slides down onto the floor with him, bonelessly, almost sluggish with pleasure as he grins at her, seated right in front of her.

Then he licks his lips, and she tackles him down.

"Whoa-!"

She is queen of the world. And he's the sweetest thing she's ever seen, ruffled hair and pink, damp lips and eyes that could melt kingdoms, watching from under her as she presses her palms to his chest. And even through the layers of his shirt and jacket she can still feel his heartbeat, a steady rhythm that's dictated his music for as long as she can remember. She hums a little tune, inspired, and Soul squeezes her hips and barks out a laugh.

Maka balks, pouting. "What?"

He's rock hard (giggle, squirm, _blush_ ) beneath her and he still smiles at her like she's framed by golden feathers, halo and all. "Are you singing Wonderwall?"

Had she? She can't even tell. She'd just taken his beat and tried to make magic, too, like he's done so many times. Her fingers work hard at freeing him of his shirt buttons, his chest blurring into vision as his shirt parts like the red sea. Oh. He'd certainly not had tattoos here as a teenager, hm.

"It's a cute song," she says defensively, tracing the shape of scythe blade.

He shivers beneath her touch. Bites his lip. Then stares at her, right at her, and she feels like the most desirable girl in the world, wrinkled dress and bare face and all. Small chest and slim hips. Like _just Maka_ is more than enough for him.

"Sure," Soul says, with a raised brow, and Maka nearly tears the buttons off his shirt trying to get him naked. "Christ- you know," he starts, grinning again, all shark, "I'm starting to think _wanting to talk_ was all an excuse to get me into your bed, Albarn."

But his hands aren't even safely on her hips anymore. They're on her bare knees, instead, sliding slow and warm up her thighs, slipping beneath the pink silk of her dress. He kneads for a moment, and she nudges forward, inspired by his gentle suggestions - yes, she'd like to work herself against the heat beneath his trousers, yes, wouldn't it be nice if her fingers worked with her and she could undo his zipper? He does look a little strained and uncomfortable. Ah, that's better. No time to shimmy them off his hips, she will just have to work with what she has. Work his boxers down, too, with a smart hand slipped beneath a waistband, and he's just as she remembered him, hot and heavy in her grip.

He might want to continue bantering, but the breath that slips through his teeth is tight, and that delightful quirk in his brow makes her want to see him through. "We're friends, Soul," she says cheekily, palming him greedily, running her thumb up and down the length of him.

Soul stutters out a breath. "We're- you're something else," he says, very seriously, and his voice is almost gritty. "Wanna be a little more than your friend," he admits then, panting, as she pumps him gradually, putty in her hands. "If- _fffuuuck,_ Maka, if you'll- let me, I'd-"

"You'll date me?" she asks breathlessly, feeling weightless, flying high.

He leads her by her hips over his erection, and he rubs so delightfully between her folds that she can't do much more than groan with him. Such a forbidden, age-old dance, one they haven't practiced the steps to for years. One she hadn't found any interest in, but with him - well, dancing has always been a little easier with him. Falling into step with Soul is one-two-three, as long as she's willing to let him lead, for once; and with the way he's looking at her, well, she's already long gone.

 _You'll date me._ What a thing to ask. They're being gross, hooking up at their friend's wedding, and she's asking him to be her damn boyfriend _again_.

Grown-up Soul rubs a thumb along her hipbone. "You sure you want that?"

Giving her an out. Admirable. But Maka Albarn doesn't sleep with just anybody, silly boy. Maka Albarn doesn't _want_ to sleep with just anybody - only him, apparently, and if he's ready to own up and work for it, too, she's willing to give it a try. Her answer is a wordless one, pivoting and sinking down upon him, burying him within her, and it's not invasive at all. It's sharing. Part of her for part of him.

 _Of course she wants that._ He's her best friend, after all, and Maka's never been able to imagine herself with anyone else.

.

The wedding is sweet, despite everything.

Maka cries, walking down the aisle, lead by Masamune. He doesn't really say anything to her - and she doesn't really expect him to - just walks, stoically, tall and imposing, long hair tied up behind him. There's nobody at the altar yet, just decorations, a heart-shaped lattice, flowers pinned up with ivy and greens, and it's lovely, comforting. Despite everything else, despite all of the shenanigans and drama getting here, it's beautiful, and Blake shoots her a victorious grin from the side, winking cheekily.

She takes her place by Patty, fiddling nervously with her own set of flowers. There will always be a part of her unnerved by weddings, she supposes, memories of her parents shouting and slammed doors haunting the rose petals that line the aisle. And she cries more, thinking about it, her mama with a new family and her cheating papa, alone, sometimes visiting, smelling of cigarettes and cologne, always with a smile for her.

She cries more, as Liz and Tsubaki walk down the aisle, holding hands, blushing and eager. Laughs, even, as the tears stream down her face and she hiccups, when Liz trips over her heels and Tsubaki catches her. They're happy, smiling at each other, hand-in-hand, and Maka thinks there might be some merits to getting married after all, like maybe happily-ever-after could exist, if they try hard enough. If they really work at it.

From aside, Kid mutters, "What a beautiful wedding."

She's inclined to agree, but before she can say anything about it, Patty's nudging him and giggling, humming along to a tune Maka can almost place. He sours, only for a moment, before sighing and nudging her back, shaking his head, tiny smile in place all the same.

They're family, the lot of them. Liz, smiling from ear to ear, waving her bouquet at her little sister - Tsubaki, giggling at a blubbering Blake, smiling pretty for her cousin's flash photography. Marriage is only bringing them closer together, and none of it feels like a death march. There are no ghosts following in the brides' footsteps, no slammed doors or gurgling baby girls on their hips.

There's just love. A lot of love, and smiles, and held hands, and- and Soul, sitting in the front row, eyes warm, collar ruffled. And he's family, too. Liz's, Tsubaki's, maybe even hers.

She's not so scared anymore. The future's not so bad, not while she's got friends to support her, not while she's got giddy, blushing role models exchanging vows. Someday, maybe there'll be a ring on her finger, too. Someday, maybe there'll be a ring on _his,_ and they'll be together, kissing one another at the alter, promising forever, in sickness and in health, for as long as they both shall live.

Maka catches his eye and he winks.

Or maybe not. And that's okay, too. Whatever happens _happens,_ she thinks, and if he's along for the ride, anything is possible. They'll figure it out.

Together.


End file.
